Paradigm Shift

There is something hungry deep within Harry, something curling in his belly, nesting in the hollow space within his ribcage, resonating in the marrows of his bones. It is both hungry and wild; perhaps its hunger makes it wild, perhaps its wildness makes it hungry. Either way, what matters is that it is both hungry and wild, and thus, so is Harry.

Harry has never been quite tame— never been taught proper table manners, never been coddled or spoiled, never known an adult he trusted— but recently his hackles have risen, his fangs slipped from their sheathes, his mind turned towards dark things. The events of the graveyard have turned him from a wary, not-entirely-tamed stray to a feral, cornered creature ready to lash out with vicious accuracy at any given moment.

If you ask Harry, it’s only to be expected, all things considered.

Lord Voldemort has returned. Tall and pale as a marble statue and just as human, he rose from the cauldron, a nightmare come to grace the earth. The Death Eaters knelt around him, trembling in fear and delight, but Harry continued to stand tall, even when Cedric fell, slack-jawed and empty-eyed, to sleep eternal with his cheek pillowed against the dark earth.

Lord Voldemort has returned. Harry has been in danger before— has faced troll and basilisk, fled werewolf and Uncle Vernon’s wrath, dodged thrown curses along with Dudley’s punches— but this is on a different level than anything he has faced before.

Lord Voldemort has returned.

They send him back to the Dursleys.

Lord Voldemort has returned, unyielding as those statues of ancient Roman conquerors with their colored paint and humanity worn away, pitiless and powerful and so, so angry, and they send Harry back to the Dursleys.

Locked away in his cage, Harry paces alone. Nightmares leave his sleep patchy and disturbed, and the Dursleys feed him as little as ever. His friends are distant and evasive, all of their letters written in scrawls like they barely have time to talk to him at all. Scraps meant to pacify him, Harry thinks derisively.

He refuses to lie down and wait for death. He isn’t allowed to use his wand, but Harry still practices the hand motions of every spell and curse and potion that he knows, trying to keep them from slipping out of his memory. He hides beneath the ledge of the garden window, listening to the news and trying to glean what he can of what’s really going on. During the long hours waiting, he does push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups, determined to develop whatever sort of strength he can.

It’s not even close to enough. Harry struggles to sleep at all, and although he continues to choke down the crumbs the Dursleys give him, they taste like sawdust in his mouth. Ron and Hermione ignore his pleas for information, brushing him aside with empty promises.

The Dursleys seem to have decided to ignore him instead of micromanaging him, this summer, so it’s easy enough to go where he pleases. As such, he heads to the library, ignoring the whispering of the librarians and the side-eyes from the other patrons and instead scouring the shelves for books on self-defense, military strategy, and battlefield medicine. Some of the concepts are made obsolete by magic; hand-to-hand combat is little use against the long range of a wand. Other concepts, like triaging injured fighters, or targeting enemies’ supplies, definitely have potential.

Harry filches an empty notebook bought several years ago for Dudley to fill with class notes and begins copying down everything he thinks that he could use. He also records his thoughts for specific applications of the various concepts, and potential pitfalls.

It still isn’t enough. He needs to be doing more than the theoretical. Harry pushes himself harder with his workouts, forcing himself to, and then beyond, his limits. He tries to do wandless magic, even though he only manages it once in every five or six times, and each attempt leaves him exhausted. He even goads Dudley into fighting him a few times, taunting and provoking him until he lashes out in blind rage. When he does, Harry can test his reaction times, his pain tolerance, can watch how Dudley’s new boxing training has changed the way he stands, the way he hits.

He takes notes on these things too; on the best exercises for different muscles, on what seems to help with making wandless magic work, on the best stance to prevent enemies from easily knocking you off your feet.

Even a lack of proper food isn’t enough to prevent him from gaining a sort of cordy, wiry muscle. Exhausted but grimly satisfied, Harry succeeds in training himself to be able to consistently create a small, warm light the size of a candle’s flame that floats just above his cupped hand. His upper lip a swollen, bloody mass from Dudley’s relentless punches, Harry smiles.

Still, the wild thing living within him only grows hungrier the more bones he gives it to gnaw on.

It’s no wonder, then, that when the dementors come, Harry is so quick to spring into action. He draws his wand from his back pocket, and this time, when he waves it, he allows the wildfire in his core to spread, surging down his arm, through the delicate flesh and bones of his hands to burst forth in the form of brilliant, glorious, living magic. His Patronus burns with the pure, barren heat of the searing center of a flame, and the Dementors flinch back before it, no more fearsome than cobwebs and shadows.

Dudley is so stunned it’s not hard to grip him by the arm and manhandle him inside. The elder Dursleys are more difficult to manage— Aunt Petunia watches him, lips pinches and eyes narrow with suspicion, as she fusses over Dudley, and the tone of voice Uncle Vernon uses as he questions Dudley… well, for all of his attempts at fatherly gentleness, the underlying rage would be audible even to the deaf.

“It was Potter,” Dudley says, face still pale as a sheet. His muscles are clenched into a sort of painful-looking crystallization, like a rabbit who just fell under the shadow of a passing hawk. “He’s being picking fights with me all summer— and now he tried to kill me.”

Uncle Vernon is on him in an instant, hands closing around Harry’s throat as he strangles him. The pressure of it is constant and crushing. It reminds Harry of the nightmares he has sometimes, the ones where the boa constrictor from the zoo rises and wraps around him, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. His vision has gained a tint the same shade of purple as Uncle Vernon’s face when Aunt Petunia finally manages to get him to let go, saying something about what “their type” would do to them if he died.

Harry thinks of telling McGonagall about the Sorceror’s Stone, about learning Hogwarts would be shut down without anyone so much as trying to find the Chamber, about being calmly told that he would have to compete in the Tournament even though he hadn’t entered his name— he thinks of all these things and decides, What would “my type” do to the Dursleys? Nothing, really.

That’s a fair bit more bitter than Harry usually allows himself to be, but in his defense, everyone he knows and loves has decided to leave him in the dark about the murderous maniac who’s deadset on killing him. He thinks he’s allowed a bit of bitterness.

Anyhow, the illusion that someone in the magical world is actively protecting him is the only thing preventing Uncle Vernon from killing him here and now, so he doesn’t breathe a word of any of his thoughts either way.

Harry flinches at the sound of an owl forcing its way in through the half-open kitchen window. He’ll bet anything that’s a letter from the Ministry. Aunt Petunia comes at the owl with a broom, but it’s wily enough to dodge her and drop the letter on Harry’s head before turning around and heading out as quick as it can.

Harry rips the letter open manages to skim it just before Uncle Vernon yanks it out of his hands. This is his second usage of underage magic, the letter tells him. He’s been expelled from Hogwarts, and the Aurors are on their way to snap his wand.

Well, Harry reasons distantly, an expulsion from Hogwarts will make the business of surviving significantly more difficult than it had been previously, but it isn’t an immediate death sentence. Having his wand snapped, on the other hand, is far more problematic, considering that Lord Voldemort would like him dead and, despite all of his efforts over this summer, Harry is still near useless without one.

Uncle Vernon’s finally finished reading the letter— he’d had to take several moments to brace himself to read something so freakish, it seems— and now he’s grinning, which almost certainly doesn’t bode well for Harry’s continued survival. “Sounds like the freaks are about as happy with you as we are!” he crows. “What was that you were saying about his sort, dearest?” He looks like he’s eager to pick up right where he left off with strangling Harry.

Aunt Petunia starts frantically trying to persuade her husband that there will still be trouble if they permanently damage Harry, but he isn’t sure how much luck she’s going to have. Harry slips out into the hall and unlocks the cupboard under the stairs using magic, then shrinks his things and tucks them away. He’s just taken his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and is about to swing it over his shoulders and head out when the second owl enters.

This one is from Arthur Weasley, telling him to stay where he is in no uncertain terms. Harry supposes it doesn’t cost him anything to put his departure off a little bit longer. He’s still not at all inclined to risk his uncle’s wrath, so he slides the hood of the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and crouches in the corner of the hall, keeping his breathing shallow and silent as he holds his wand at the ready in his hand.

He’ll give them a chance, Harry tells himself, letting his head fall back against the wall and his eyes slip closed in a moment’s respite. He’ll give them a chance to prove him wrong.

He waits three days, staying under his Invisibility Cloak and eating the food he’d packed in his trunk, enchanted with stasis charms, at the beginning of the summer. He’d not had an opportunity beforehand, with his trunk having been immediately locked away upon his arrival, but he’s glad now for his forethought.

With each passing day, Harry grows more skeptical and more cynical. Even if wizards do come for him, he thinks bitterly, it would have been too late if not for Harry’s actions. It was Harry who protected himself from the Dementors, and it is Harry now who is carefully hiding from his murderous uncle. If Harry didn’t have the sense to use his invisibility cloak and to have stashed away food so he could survive unobtrusively, they’d be stopping by to pick up his body and nothing more.

On the fourth day, a group of wizards finally stop by to pick him up. Harry abruptly finds himself caught up in the familiar whirlwind of the magical world once again, in seeing the eccentricity of Mad-Eye Moody and meeting strange Nymphadora Tonks, who can shift her appearance at will, in the all-too-familiar sensation of the assembled wizards’ and witches weighty stares, and in the equally familiar way that each of them redirects all of his questions.

The only useful thing he learns, Harry thinks bitterly, is not to stow his wand in his back pocket lest he blow off one of his buttocks.

They transport him via broom, which makes Harry wonder about the possible usage of brooms in battle. It’s not something Harry has seen or heard of in the Wizarding World, which could make it an excellent way to surprise the enemy, and it would make for a good opportunity to employ some of the muggle tactics used in dogfighting and other types of muggle aerial warfare. Harry hadn’t researched those fields in any depth and resolves to research it when he can.

They reach the safe house, which is a grimy townhouse that seems more suited for housing a Dark wizard than the Weasleys and the rest of Harry’s friends. Still, house them it does, as Harry sees for certain upon entering and almost immediately being pulled into a hug with Mrs. Weasley.

She quickly leaves again, however; apparently, there’s a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, a group Dumbledore has assembled to fight Voldemort. A group Harry is not a part of, and whose meetings he is not allowed to show up to. Harry grinds his teeth, and the wildfire in his chest flares higher. The wild thing inside him wants to snap his teeth at Mrs. Weasley’s heels, point out in cutting words just how utterly stupid it is not to allow him the information he needs to protect himself, but he bits the words back. Arguing with adults has never helped him.

Arguing with Ron and Hermione doesn’t help, either. They only say that they’re sorry they couldn’t tell him more over the summer, and Dumbledore told not to, and that it was to keep him safe. They at least can tell him more about the Order, and about the house itself, which is, it turns out, an old inheritance of Sirius’.

In the end, Harry doesn’t spend too long with them, as each conversation topic seems to bump against the things that make Harry want to yell himself hoarse. Instead, Harry tells them he’s going to go get settled in his room and leaves them to their usual bickering over house-elf libration.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to pack his things away, what with how little he owns. He sits on his musty-smelling bed, thinking. He’d filched concealer from Aunt Petunia, and used it to cover the purple-black bruising that mars the pale skin of his neck, but he knows it’s bound to smear or rub off, eventually. He doesn’t want the wizards’ pity, doesn’t want them to think he’s weak when they’re already treating him so much like a child.

He’s vaguely aware of glamour charms, though he doesn’t know any himself. He’ll have to look around for any books in the house, and try to learn one.

That plan made, Harry pulls out his spiral-bound notebook and begins writing down all of the thoughts he’d had on using brooms for aerial warfare.

After dinner, Harry manages to persuade the adults to tell him a little bit (a precious little bit) about what’s going on with Voldemort. Sirius lingers with him a little bit longer, seeming eager to talk. He tells Harry a little bit more than the others had, and, when asked, reluctantly reveals the location of the Black library.

Harry slips away to the aforementioned library. It’s as grimy as the rest of the house, and the whole place is hung thick with Dark magic. As he browses the shelves looking for anything he can find on glamour charms, he notices that many of the books bite. Still, he manages to find a promising-looking book on glamours, as well as a book on dueling that he happened to spot.

After Harry learns his new glamour charm by rote, Harry devours the book on dueling. Just like the muggle books that he’d read earlier, Harry notes down everything that he thinks might be useful; he copies down how to identify curses by color and wand movement, how best to choose counterspells, and the best strategies for shielding. From there, it’s natural to leaf through a treatise on healing magic (Harry grimly reflects that knowing his luck, everything he learns will end up applicable at some point or another), and then he finds himself entrenched in a thick tome on warding. After all, he really wouldn’t have minded having some wards, back at Privet Drive.

When the pale dawn light creeps through the grimy windows and dapples his page, Harry is surrounded by piles of books, and deeply engrossed in an introductory book on runes. As it turns out, warding is based on runes to the point where Harry couldn’t hope to ever lay down a ward if he doesn’t learn at least something of runes. The book is dense and weathered, but Harry is determined to parse through it. At his side, he’s filled a good two dozen more pages of his notebook with notes on everything that he’s learned.

Harry blinks as he sees sunlight fall on his hand; he’d grown used to seeing by the dim light of the old gas lamp next to him. He peers over and realizes with a start that he’s been reading all night. He has no desire for Mrs. Weasley to realize what he’s been up to, so he quickly puts away the books (being careful to note their location for future perusal), double-checks his glamour charms, and heads down for breakfast.

Mrs. Weasley is talking about setting them to work cleaning up Grimmauld Place, but Harry finds it easy enough to get her to count him out of her plans just by saying something about being tired. He thinks that everyone must have heard him venting his frustrations to Ron and Hermione earlier, and although the thought should probably bring him a flush of shame, right now he’s too grateful for the freedom their new wariness of him brings.

While the others clean, Harry slips off to the library to do more research. This time, he notices an unfamiliar house-elf lurking among the shelves, ostensibly dusting the books but with eyes persistently lingering on Harry. He’s sure to be extra careful with the delicate books and to put each one back exactly where he found it.

At lunch, Harry asks about the elf, which sends Sirius into a furious tirade, which in turn sets Hermione off on one of her speeches about house-elf liberation. Between the two of them, Harry at least manages to learn that the elf’s name is Kreacher, and he is quite devoted to the Blacks. Apparently, he has been mercilessly cursing out the rest of them, which makes Harry wonder why he hasn’t so much as called Harry a blood traitor. Perhaps it’s because, unlike the others, Harry is not endeavoring to clean the house.

The others continue their attempts at cleaning the house, but Harry finds himself spending almost all of his time in the library. He’s never been someone who enjoyed learning for learning’s sake, but now each tidbit he masters is a weapon in his hands to point towards Voldemort, and he very much likes that.

At first, Hermione seems delighted by his newfound studiousness. During the times when she isn’t busy cleaning and Harry isn’t busy researching, she listens to him talking about what he’s reading with interest and suggests other books, other spells, other fields to look into. But, when Harry suggests practicing dueling together, she waves him off, saying that she’s unwilling to “engage in underage magic”, even though Sirius told them that the house is warded against the Trace. None of Harry’s attempts at bargaining or logic will persuade her otherwise, and he drops the matter, worried that if he pushes it, she’ll tell Mrs. Weasley that he’s been using underage magic.

Ron’s the opposite; he’s up for a few practice duels here and there when he manages to skive off cleaning, and he’s a dab hand at strategy, but when Harry starts suggesting he pick up specific spells, that he sit down and read specific books, he’s suddenly no longer quite so interested.

Sirius, at least, is willing to duel him. His style is very different from Harry’s own; Harry is concerned only with efficiency, with winning, with survival, but Sirius is flashy and flamboyant, with a flair for the dramatics. At the same time, he’s got a wicked sense of creativity that allows him to continually surprise his opponents, catching them off guard and tricking them. His experience from the First Wizarding War also lends him an edge, and Harry is able to learn a good bit from him.

Sirius calls him James sometimes, when they duel. Harry ignores it because the hungry, scared thing inside him likes the power and assurance of knowing more about dueling more than it likes being called by the right name.

Mad-Eye Moody is also more than willing to duel him. He seems to approve of Harry’s new pursuits and even gives Harry a new wand holster so he has somewhere better to hold his wand than just his belt-loop. Mad-Eye Moody is too busy to duel him often, but each time is enlightening; he’s got an inventive, pragmatic approach that fits well with the way Harry himself functions.

There is someone else who seems to approve of what Harry is doing, and it is not anyone who Harry would expect. Kreacher has changed from watching Harry warily to fetching books for him without being asked, and warning him when “that Weasley woman”, as he calls Mrs. Weasley, is headed his way. It’s through Kreacher’s warnings that Harry manages to hide his perusal of a number of somewhat… Dark books and his usage of underage magic from Mrs. Weasley.

It’s funny since Harry spent the whole summer break before this desperately wishing that he could see his friends, but he finds himself spending less time with them. He’s not completely cut off from them; he eats with them, and they’ll spend some of the time the others aren’t busy cleaning together. Still, Harry feels a measure of distance from them.

Harry is more than willing to talk strategy with Ron or carry on a conversation about runes with Hermione. It’s when Ron tells him that he should take a break every so often, or when Hermione starts asking if he wants to talk about Cedric, that Harry finds himself withdrawing. Similarly, he’s happy to listen to the twins tell him everything they’ve learned through their Extendable Ears, but when they tell him not to be so serious all the time, he turns aside.

Even when he does find time to spend with them, his mind wanders. For instance, the Weasleys want to play exploding snap, and he’s willing to spare the time for a few games, but soon he’s thinking about the best usage for fire-based spells instead of the cards. He simply doesn’t see how any of them are able to act so unconcerned and relaxed when Voldemort is out there. Can’t they see the danger they’re all in? Don’t they understand the need to prepare themselves?

The day of the trial comes through at last. Harry spends the night trying and failing to sleep, until finally, at half-past four, he gives up and gets up for the day. Harry showers and thoroughly combs his hair, although he thinks it doesn’t make any difference, and then dresses in his best clothes, which are the slacks he wears under his robes at Hogwarts, and a shirt that isn't quite as ragged as the rest.

Still, he figures it’s as best as he can get it. No one else seems to be up yet, so he heads to the Black library to try to steady his mind with a bit of familiar research.

Kreacher’s eyes narrow when he sees Harry, or rather, what Harry is wearing. “Young Master should not be dressing so disgracefully when he goes out on official business,” he sniffs, then adds in an undertone, “even if it is to the filthy, useless Ministry.”

Harry snorts. He can’t disagree with that. Harry doesn’t notice, but something in Kreacher’s shoulders loosens at his laughter.

“Kreacher will fetch the Young Master something proper to wear,” he says. Harry nods his thanks, and Kreacher pops away. He returns a moment later holding a set of slightly dusty, but surprisingly well-maintained dress robes. They’re a shade of green that uncomfortably reminds Harry of the Slytherin colors, but even he has to recognize the way that it brings out his eyes.

The robes are a few sizes too big, and Harry notices a small, hand-embroidered tag on the inside of the collar reading R. Black as he puts it on. A quick shrinking charm takes care of the sizing, and he tucks the tag in; he doesn’t want anyone at the Ministry realizing he’s wearing borrowed robes.

Kreacher surveys him critically, then nods. “Kreacher supposes this is as good as possible,” he says. “The Weasley woman has woken and will soon go looking for the Young Master.”

Harry nods and heads down to the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley seems surprised, yet pleased, to see him already all dressed. “You’ve cleaned up better than I expected,” Tonks tells him. “I wouldn’t have expected you to have such a nice robe after the shabby clothes you’ve been wearing all summer.”

Harry half-shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. Mrs. Weasley puts a plate of food in front of him, and he starts to pick at it, as everyone around him starts giving him bits and pieces of advice on what to do, and what not to do, at the trial.

At one point, Mrs. Weasley abruptly moves to try to attack his hair with a comb, and Harry has his wand drawn and pointed in her direction before he realizes what’s happened. Mad-Eye Moody nods approvingly, while Lupin just looks sad, and Mrs. Weasley sighs and pats him on the shoulder, saying something about them all being jumpy this morning.

It’s Harry’s first time in the Ministry, but he’s too nervous to appreciate all of the new sights and sounds very much. If he’s found guilty, he’ll have his wand snapped… how’s he going to protect himself from Voldemort without a wand?

It seems to Harry like the case should pretty cut and dry; anyone with common sense would realize he used his magic in self-defense. The problem is that most wizards don’t seem to have common sense, and the Ministry has it out for him besides.

The fact that they change the time and place of the trial and the way that the entire Wizengamont shows up for a simple disciplinary hearing doesn’t help Harry relax, either.

In the end, it turns out alright. Dumbledore manages to pull through in the end, showing up to Harry’s trial just in the nick of time. He doesn’t so much as glance in Harry’s direction through the entire trial, though. Not even when Fudge finally, reluctantly acquits him.

That little detail, the way he won’t even look at Harry, makes the wild thing twist in his stomach, beat the insides of his ribcage, gnaw on his bones.

Honestly, Harry isn’t sure why it bothers him so much. After all, Dumbledore actually managed to save his sorry hide for once. Shouldn’t he be grateful?

Maybe it’s because of how much it reminds him of life at Privet Drive. Not of the Dursleys— attention from the Dursleys is never a good thing— but of the neighbors, pretending they don’t notice the purple-black bruises molting his cheekbone, the blisters on his uncovered, sunscreen less skin as he labors in the sun for the third day in a row, the bloody crescents Aunt Petunia’s nails cut into his forearm that are visible as he counts out the exact change required for a cheap first aid kit at the local Aldi.

It’s fine, though. It’s fine because Harry is good at swallowing his anger, has been swallowing it for years as smooth as Dudley swallowing the special sweet-flavored medicine Aunt Petunia would get whenever he fell sick. It doesn’t matter; he’s out of there, at least for now. That’s enough; that has to be enough.

Everyone celebrates when he arrives back at Grimmauld Place and they hear the news. They have a special dinner that night, and for once, Harry can relax enough to play Exploding Snap with the others, and only think of Voldemort and his Death Eaters a few times.

The next morning, though, it’s back to his regular schedule. The whole affair has only confirmed for him that he can’t rely on the Ministry to do anything except make his life more difficult, and judging by the Daily Prophet, quite a bit of the Wizarding World is sticking their heads so far into the sand that they’ll be finding grains in their ears for ages.

Kreacher seems almost curious about the whole affair, so Harry tells him about it. It ends up devolving into a rant about how useless everyone is being, about how no one seems to be doing anything close to what needs to be done to fight Voldemort. Kreacher listens with a bright, feverish light in his eyes, and at the end of Harry’s rant, he tells Harry there’s someone who he ought to hear about.

It’s there, among the endless cobwebs and dust motes of the Black library, that Harry hears about Regulus Black, a Death Eater who found out something terrible Voldemort was doing (Kreacher won’t say what, and frankly, Harry doesn’t want to know) and turned against him, dying in the process. Kreacher seems delighted by the frank admiration the tale raises in Harry, and even more by how honored Harry feels by the realization it was Regulus’ robe that he’d worn to the Ministry hearing.

Harry wants to tell Sirius about it, but he’s grown surly and moody with the revelation that Harry will be leaving, after all, and somehow Harry never quite finds the time. Instead, Harry finds himself listening to Kreacher’s stories about Regulus, who he clearly loved dearly. Kreacher even allows Harry to borrow Regulus’s journals, which are full of his notes on various fields of magic. They include runic sequences and simple spells that seem to have been invented by Regulus himself, as well as a great deal of notes on the nature of Dark magic.

Reading through these journals, Harry feels a bit like he’s speaking to a kindred soul. His own notebook grows fuller, as he copies over bits and pieces from Regulus’ journals that he believes he could use, himself.

Harry has just finished reading the last of Regulus’s journals when the booklists arrive. Ron and Hermione are made prefect; in a rather embarrassing series of events, Hermione assumes it’s Harry, and Ron seems to think Harry will be jealous. Frankly, Harry is relieved. He imagines being a prefect would only take time away from his training.

Still, he doesn't think either Ron or Hermione would be happy to hear that. Hiding his feelings behind a blank mask, Harry slides his thumb under his own letter and pulls it open.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted… Harry blinks, then more rapidly scans down the rest of the letter. It’s… an acceptance letter to Hogwarts, much like the one he’d gotten just before his first year.

“...what?” Harry asks faintly.

“Oh, I was just saying that maybe that slimy git will finally decide to actually teach Potions, this year,” Ron repeats himself cheerfully.

Shaking his head, Harry passes the letter to Ron, who then passes it to Hermione.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Hermione who figures out what’s happened. As it turns out, that letter stating that he’d been expelled from Hogwarts wasn’t just a threat; he really had been expelled. Of course, he’s been acquitted, but magically systems automatically update, so the best they can do is re-enroll him.

“You’ll have to be re-Sorted as well, I imagine,” Hermione says with a casual wave of her hand. “You’re technically not a part of any house right now— which could explain why you didn’t get—”

Ron turns a faint shade of pink, and Hermione rushes to apologize, reassuring him that he really does deserve to be prefect. In the meantime, Harry sinks into a nearby chair, his breath catching with panic as he imagines finding himself under the Hat once more… he barely managed to persuade it to put him into Gryffindor the first time, what if—?

“Oh, don’t worry,” Hermione tells him fondly. “I’m sure you’ll get into Gryffindor again, no problem. You’re the bravest person I know— and,” she adds more quietly, “—the most prone to getting into trouble.”

“That’s hardly his fault!” Ron argues stoutly, and the two soon devolve into merry quarreling. Slipping the letter into his pocket, Harry heads back to the Black library— if there’s any chance at all that he’ll end up in Slytherin, he needs to brush up on his warding, his shielding charms, his healing magic… on everything, really.

When Kreacher pops in, Harry tells him about the new turn of events. Upon hearing Harry’s suspicion he may end up in Slytherin this time around, he nods very solemnly, but Harry can see the sparkle of delight in his bulbous eyes, and he can tell Kreacher is suppressing a gleeful smile.

“Oh come on,” Harry says crossly. “Yes, I realize that not every single Slytherin is automatically evil, or anything— I’ve read more than enough of Regulus’ journals that I can’t deny that— but most of them would like nothing more than to see me dead.” He doesn't really think he'll end up in Slytherin, but the thought still won't leave him, lingering at the back of his mind as just another thing on a very long list of things to worry about.

Kreacher sobers up a bit, at that, and after that, he starts helping Harry by fetching various books for him.

With so much to do and something to dread, time seems to speed up until it’s positively galloping by, and before he knows it, Harry is on the Hogwarts Express, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he watches the landscape change with every mile they speed closer to the school. He should probably be studying up still, but at this point, it can’t make much difference, and he’s too nervous to concentrate properly.

There’s Luna on the train with them, at least; her talk of fantastical, unseen creatures and government conspiracies helps the wild beast that’s lingered within him unwind just a bit.

All of that tension comes rushing back with a vengeance when Malfoy enters their compartment for the traditional Hogwarts Express Malfoy-Potter Confrontation. Harry’s never in the mood for seeing Malfoy’s pinched, gittish face, but especially not this year.

“Get out,” he says bluntly. He meets Malfoy’s eyes coolly, his stony expression showing Malfoy he’s not in the mood to deal with him. Malfoy, of course, ignores that.

“You’d better watch your manners, or I’ll be obligated to give you a detention,” Malfoy sneers. “You know, since I, unlike you, have been appointed prefect, which means I, unlike you, have been given the power to dole out punishments.”

Harry snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, Malfoy. That means so much when we all know that you only got the position because of Daddy dearest. How does it feel to have all of your accomplishments come secondhand from your father? Do you even lace up your shoes yourself, or does your father do that for you, too?”

Even Hermione hides a laugh behind her hand.

Malfoy sneers. “Be careful, Potter. My family has the power to make your life very difficult.”

Harry thinks of Voldemort rising from the cauldron, of Lucius Malfoy bending to kiss the hem of his robes, and laughs, so loud and full that even Malfoy is startled out of his contemptuous expression. “Make my life difficult? Right. Because my life is so easy right now.”

Harry grins, knife-sharp and utterly humorless. “Get out, Malfoy. I have actual problems to deal with.”

Malfoy stares at him for a split second longer, then turns and leaves.

Harry turns back to the window, which is being gently spattered by a misty sort of rain. If he gets Sorted into Slytherin, he thinks with a sort of numb irritation, he’ll be stuck in a dorm room with Malfoy. He shudders. He’s glad he learned all of those wards.

He’s glad, too, that he’s at least allowed to go up to the castle with the others like usual, even if his stress is making him hallucinate some rather disturbing approximations of horses.

When they reach the castle entrance, Harry half-heartedly tries to blend into the crowd and slip to his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, but Professor McGonagall catches him by the collar and prevents him from leaving.

With a sigh, Harry moves to stand in the entryway with Professor McGonagall as they wait for the first year. For a while, they simply wait in silence, watching through the window as the rain whips the weathered grey stones of the castle walls.

At last, Professor McGonagall says, “I am sure you will return to Gryffindor. There’s nothing for you to be anxious about.”

Harry nods dutifully. Professor McGonagall seems to think he should have something to say in response, but Harry can’t think of anything to add.

The first years arrive, with Professor Grubbly-Plank at their head. They look very young, and very short, and very nervous. More than a few are sending wide-eyed, curious glances at Harry, and more than one of them is whispering to those around him.

Professor McGonagall leads them to the small chamber off the hall which Harry recognizes from his own Sorting four years ago, and explains about the four houses. After she leaves, there’s a moment of pregnant silence, and then several of the braver first years pounce on Harry with questions.

“Are you Harry Potter?” a girl with frizzy honey blonde hair demands.

“Why are you here with us, instead of in the Great Hall?” a sharp-eyed boy asks.

“D’you know how they Sort us?” another boy lisps.

Harry raises his hands defensively, feeling a bit swamped. “I can’t answer any of your questions unless you let me talk,” he points out, and they quickly fall silent.

“Uh… first of all, yes, I am.” There’s a chorus of gasps, and with a sigh, Harry obligingly lifts his fringe to show them the scar. “Second of all… the long story short of it is the Ministry f— uh, messed up, and they accidentally expelled me. They re-enrolled me, but I still have to get Sorted again, since everything automatically updated. As for the Sorting itself…” Harry doesn’t want to spoil the surprise, but he doesn’t want them to be nervous, either. “Let’s say that you don’t need to be scared, and leave it at that.”

Several of the first years grumble in annoyance at his evasive answer, but any further questioning is cut short by Professor McGonagall’s return. They all file in; although malnutrition has stunted Harry’s growth, he’s still a good bit taller than the first years, and when he enters, everyone in the hall spots him. There’s a split second of silence so complete you could hear a pin drop, and then Malfoy laughs raucously and calls, “Potter got sent back to first year!”

Professor McGonagall hushes everyone, and the Sorting Hat begins to sing.

Harry is too anxious to pay much attention, but he notices that it seems to have an unusual emphasis on unity and a strange, uncharacteristically cynical tint.

There’s a long moment of uneasy silence, and then Professor McGonagall calls the first name— “Abercrombie, Euan”— who turns out to be the boy with the lisp from earlier. He heads to Gryffindor, and Harry claps enthusiastically.

The Sorting continues, and Harry makes sure to clap whole-heartedly for each first-year no matter what house they end up in. After the last first year is sorted, there’s a long moment of silence where Professor McGonagall seems to consider if she should try to explain the situation with Harry, then evidently gives up and just says, “Harry Potter.”

If it’s possible, the stares on Harry somehow grow even weightier. Keeping his face as cool and neutral as though he’s just walking to the fridge for a bite of food, Harry walks up to the stool and sits down; Professor McGonagall drops the hat onto his head, and this time, he’s big enough that it doesn’t slip down over his eyes. This has the unfortunate effect of allowing him to still see the inhabitants of the Great Hall, who are all peering at him in immense interest.

“Oh, my,” the Sorting Hat says, in its withered voice. “It is rare indeed that I get to sit on one student’s head so many times.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably. He wishes the Hat would just get on with it and put him out of his misery.

“In that case,” the Sorting Hat says, and then bellows, “SLYTHERIN!”

There is total and complete silence in the Great Hall, and even among the utterly composed Slytherin upper years, many a jaw has dropped. Harry doesn’t notice any of this, however, too busy furiously thinking, What the fuck?

It’s then that the Great Hall is treated to the unseen-before sight of the Sorting Hat dissolving into peals of audible laughter. Many of the students relax, figuring that the Sorting Hat must have been playing some sort of prank. No, the Sorting Hat has never been known to play a prank, but it makes a great deal more sense than Harry Potter being Sorted into Slytherin.

What the hell was that for? Harry asks angrily. Are you mis-sorting me because of that whole shtick about internal divide in the song? Because let me tell you, this will just make things worse.

“Most certainly not,” the Hat sniffs in return. “And it’s not a mis-sorting.”

Is it because… because of my connection to Voldemort, then? Harry asks, feeling as though he already knows the answer.

“No!” the Hat sounds affronted. “I Sort only on the students’ characteristics, and certainly not upon their enemies. If anything, it is because of your rigorous opposition to Voldemort that I know for certain that Slytherin is where you belong!”

“What?” Harry audibly blurts out. The Great Hall shifts nervously. Maybe it’s not a joke, after all.

“Think about what you have been doing to fight Voldemort,” the Hat says. “The cunning, the resourcefulness, the ambition that I saw during your first year— I might have expected them to wither away in Gryffindor. And yet all of those traits have not just remained, but flourished. You are shaping into yourself into something very Slytherin indeed.”

I am shaping myself into something that can survive, Harry thinks coolly to himself, and then, turning his mind outwards, by all rights, what I’ve been doing to fight Voldemort should send me to Gryffindor, for the bravery of standing up to him, or Hufflepuff, for my hard work. Or even Ravenclaw, for how much I’m studying. Anything is better than Slytherin, where most of the house will be out for his blood. Besides, what’s this about ambition? I’ll have you remember that last year, I tried my hardest to stay out of the Tournament.

“Exactly!” The Sorting Hat crows. “Avoiding glory in favor of self-preservation! I dare say none of your so-called ‘fellow’ Gryffindors would have done such a thing— that’s why none of them believed you when you said you hadn’t put your name in! I should have never allowed you to persuade me to Sort you into Gryffindor— you quite clearly belong in SLY—”

Wait, Harry desperately cuts the Hat off, Hogwarts bloody well owes me for the thing with the Basilisk. I prevented the school from being closed, and now you’re going to try to get me killed by sending me to Slytherin? Is this how Hogwarts repays me?

For the second time that day, and also probably the second time in history, the Hat bursts into laughter. “This attempt at blackmailing me is only further proving my point! Now, GET UP AND GO TO SLYTHERIN!”

Professor McGonagall pulls the Sorting Hat off of his head. Its tip is, Harry notes dimly, smoking just a bit. Harry should probably feel guilty, but as he rises to start his long walk towards the staring members of the Slytherin table, he wishes the Hat had been burnt a little bit more thoroughly.

At their green-draped table, the Slytherins are watching him, their gazes weighing heavy on Harry’s thin frame. It is the same look, Harry thinks, that the Death Eaters wore as he stood in the graveyard, wand clenched in his sweaty hand and Cedric’s body prone at his feet. It is the look as when they laughed behind their masks, as Voldemort forced him to bow to a man without honor, to bow to death.

Their watching gazes are the same gazes of Roman Senators, silk-clad and lips stained by the grapes their slaves feed them as they peer down at the gladiator who will face death for their amusement; it is the cool gaze of a bored oligarch for whom pain and suffering are as distant as the ever-departing edge of the world where earth meets sky; the gaze of someone who seeks Harry’s weakness, seeks his suffering, seeks his end, because watching him unravel would be, to them, the most delightful of fun.

There is only one answer Harry has for them.

They look for weakness, so he will show them strength. They look for suffering, so he will show only smooth, unconcerned calm. They look for his end, so he will show them a new dawn beyond the graveyard’s night.

Harry is almost at the Slytherin table, now. The table seems to be arranged according to age, with the older students sitting closer to the teacher’s table. As he passes, the upperclassmen shamelessly turn their heads to track his progress with eyes that even they can’t keep from widening.

Perhaps they do not expect him to react with dead-eyed calm as frigid as the bite of a blade. Perhaps they expect flushing anger, expect bluster and bluffing.

But what does hot-blooded rage serve him?

Harry’s world is one of scarcity. He does not have time for their frivolities and indulgences. He can only keep what serves him, and the kind of anger that runs warm does not serve him, not anymore. It will not allow him to kill Voldemort— only his new sort of cold, crystalized fury has a chance at that.

Harry cannot entirely tame the wild thing within, but he can keep it leashed, and use it against his enemies instead of himself.

Harry’s walk brings him ever closer to the spot at the table where the fifth years sit. From across the table, Malfoy is staring at him, his grey eyes so uncharacteristically wide and disbelieving that Harry can’t help the way his lip twitches. Pansy Parkinson clings to one of Malfoy’s arms like it’s a lifeline, and either Crabbe or Goyle (Harry can’t tell the difference) is sitting at the other side of him, gaping callously.

As Malfoy continues staring blankly, a fifth year Slytherin whose name Harry doesn’t know moves like going to make room for Harry to sit beside her, but Harry has already turned his head away and continued onward. It would be foolish to purposefully sit so close to Malfoy’s gang; Harry doesn’t fancy being hexed under the table for the rest of the meal, after all.

Instead, Harry heads to the very end of the table, where the newly Sorted first years sit. He comes to a stop right behind the sharp-eyed boy who had asked why he was with the unsorted first years, instead of with the other Gryffindors at their table. “May I sit here?” Harry asks.

The boy blinks up at him, then, looking as though he just woke from a dream, nods. There’s an awkward pause, and then a rather inelegant shuffling about as all of the first years to the left of him move down a seat so that there’s an empty place setting for Harry.

Nodding his thanks, Harry takes his new seat.

Most people probably think he’s gone insane, but Harry honestly thinks this is the most logical course of action that he can take. The first years are unlikely to be as entrenched in blood supremacy as the upper years, and even if they do try to harm him, Harry can say without any exaggeration or overconfidence that none of them will be able to so much as land a scratch on him.

Harry folds his hands into his sleeves to hide their trembling; he’s found that since he endured Voldemort’s Cruciatus his hands constantly tremble regardless of his emotions, and he doesn’t want to take anyone to take it as a sign of weakness or anxiety. Face as smooth as he can make it, he turns to pointedly regard the teacher’s table at the front of the Great Hall.

As he does, he can’t help but notice the Slytherins’ expressions. Some of the younger students are outright staring at him; when Harry raises his eyebrows, they quickly turn their gazes away, looking abashed. In contrast, even a direct, pointed glance from Harry won’t make the upperclassmen unfurrow their brows, or smooth out the disapproving moues that their lips have twisted into. None look so upset as Malfoy, who is outright scowling at him. Well, let him scowl as much as he likes, Harry reflects dispassionately. It’s not as though his daddy has any influence over this.

Up at the front of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall is still holding the Sorting Hat in her hand, staring blankly at it like she’s never seen it before. Meanwhile, Dumbledore is pale and shocked, and Snape, who is staring down at his plate like he can set it alight through sheer willpower, appears to be trembling with rage.

Harry’s heart skips as he remembers that Snape is his head of house, now. He really should have burned that damn hat down to the brim.

Dumbledore seems to come back to himself and manages to regain his composure once more. He stands, smoothing his robes out like he can smooth away Harry’s unfortunate new house along with any wrinkles in the peacock-colored velvet.

“Well,” Dumbledore remarks with impressive steadiness, “I dare say that few among us could have anticipated this newest turn of events. Luckily for us, there are some things in life we can count on to never be sources of surprise or stupefaction, chief among those being the comfort of a hot meal and good company. The house-elves have put together a marvelous welcome feast, and I dare say I have no desire to keep you from it.”

With that, Dumbledore sits down again without so much as a glance in Harry’s direction.

One tolerable aspect of this new arrangement is that at least the food at Slytherin looks just as good as it had been at Gryffindor; despite what Ron might sometimes seem to think, they do not, it seems, dine on baby’s blood and slime. Harry has been trying to eat more protein and less fatty, sweet food recently, but he can’t resist the allure of his favorite steak and kidney pie and a bit of Hogwarts’ signature treacle tart. He at least adds some roast vegetables on the side so he can pretend that he’s eating healthy.

A nearby girl is watching him serving himself the roast vegetables with interest, so Harry obligingly passes them over. “Thank you,” she says, her eyes fixed shyly onto her plate. Harry nods in acknowledgment and returns to his own food.

It’s like that small action was the opening of some sort of seal because a moment later, the sharp-eyed boy Harry sat next to takes a quick, deep breath like a scuba diver about to slip into frigid waters and announces, “I’m Carmen Boyle.”

Harry nods, bemused, but before he can do much more than that, someone else is speaking up.

“Lena Nightbloom,” the girl who he had given the roast vegetables says in a quiet voice. Then the dark-skinned girl next to her introduces herself, followed by her blonde-haired friend, and then from there, they move around the table as all of the first years introduce themselves in a dizzying flurry of names.

Once Harry is pretty sure that they’re all done introducing themselves, he gives a perfunctory nod and says, “Pleased to meet you.”

There’s a pause long enough that for a minute Harry thinks that’s it, that now he’ll be allowed to simply sit quietly and eat his food while the first years talk about whatever it is first years talk about. Instead, a first year who introduced herself as Jodie Stems breaks the silence to ask, “Do you have any tips for how to succeed? As first years, I mean?”

Harry’s stomach twists and a bitter taste taints the steak and kidney in his mouth. He shouldn’t so judgmental; these are only first years, after all, and hadn’t he already decided that not all Slytherins were evil? Resolving to be more open-minded towards them, Harry forces some of the tension that has gathered in his shoulders to dissipate and turns his attention toward Stems’ question.

He’s never had anyone younger go to him for advice before, so he doesn’t have any wisdom handily stored up. Instead, he turns his mind back to his own first year, trying to think of ways he could have avoided his mistakes.

“Keep good track of your possessions,” he says, thinking of Neville losing his Remembrall, and of how he’d forgotten the Invisibility Cloak at the top of the Astronomy tower when smuggling Norberta.

Stems nods, looking unsurprised and maybe a little bit disappointed, but Harry doesn’t even notice, too caught up in his thoughts and memories.

“If you break rules, either be sneaky enough not to get caught, or do it for an underlying reason that the professor would agree with; that way they’ll go easy on you,” Harry tells them. It’s a policy that has served him well, as accidentally as he may have been employing it; he managed to get outright rewarded for both riding his broom unsupervised in flight class and breaking into the third-floor corridor because of that one.

A little bit further up the table, two second year Slytherins exchange glances. “That’s kind of a Slytherin way to think, isn’t it?” one whispers.

“Also,” Harry continues, “don’t get mixed up in breaking rules just because someone you want to impress is pressuring you to.” He thinks of how he’d allowed himself to be tricked into showing up to Malfoy’s phony wizard’s duel and stifles a wince.

“Okay, that sounds more Gryffindorish,” the second year Slytherin tells her friend lowly. She sounds relieved, like the world has turned right side up again.

Among the first years, there’s a long moment’s silence, and then— “...it sounds like you got into a lot of trouble as a first year,” Stems ventures shyly.

Harry shrugs. “I suppose.”

“Any other tips?” asks another first year, this time a girl who had introduced herself as Sydney Rooks. “What about classes?”

“You’ll want to be careful in Poti— actually, I suppose not, since you’re Slytherins,” Harry interrupts himself. He’d forgotten, for a minute, amongst all of his thoughts of his own first year. He swallows, then starts again.

“Make sure you master all of the concepts in Transfiguration since that class always builds off of what you’ve learned in the previous year; if you don’t learn your foundations properly, it can lead to big problems later on. Professor Flitwick likes students who ask a lot of questions, and Professor Sprout hates it when she thinks people are slacking, so make sure that’s not the first impression she gets of you. Binns is useless— you’re better off studying on your own— and the Defense professors are always shi—”

Harry cuts himself off. “Er… the Defense professors are…” Harry falls silent, trying to think of a good word for it.

“You can just say ‘shit’,” a first year named Mateo Burnet says. His lips form around the word ‘shit’ with the delight of someone who hasn’t sworn much in their lives.

“The Defense professors are almost always the biggest source of danger in Hogwarts,” Harry settles on. He doesn’t notice the circle of sudden quiet spreading out around him at those words, the way many of the nearby Slytherins who had mostly been tuning him out are suddenly turning away from their own conversations to listen to what he’s saying. “You shouldn’t end up alone with any professor if you can help it, and you should look at everything you’re told critically, but that’s doubly— no, triply true with the Defense professor. Whoever the Defense professor is, there’s almost certainly something that they’re hiding, some sort of ulterior motive for why they’d take a job that everyone knows is cursed. Keep that in mind in all of your interactions with them.”

“...if the job’s really cursed, why don’t they do something about it?” Stems pipes up.

“Because adults are incompetent fools,” Harry says without thinking. He grimaces as he notices that what seems like half of Slytherin is staring at him. “Er… I’m sure it’s… difficult to unravel, or something. And that the people in charge of removing it are incompetent,” Harry can’t resist reiterating.

Harry accidentally makes eye contact with a Slytherin upperclassman who is staring at him thoughtfully. Harry turns his head away. “Anyway,” he says, putting down his knife and fork. “What are you looking forward to about your first year of Hogwarts?”

Blessedly, the first years take the hint and start talking cheerfully about lighter things. To Harry’s relief, the older Slytherins who had begun to stare return to their own conversations as well. Released from his burden, Harry lets his thoughts turn to other, more pressing matters.

The first matter which demands his attention is, of course, warding. Obviously, he’ll want to put down a ward around his bed, but should he also individually ward his trunk, or is just keeping it within the bounds of his bed-ward enough? Hmm… it’s not as though he’s going to be taking it out from under the bed-ward very often, either way. Besides, the trunk already has a password in Parseltongue. That should probably be enough for that, then.

What about his school bag? The only way to ward a cloth bag with any sort of permanence would involve sewing runes into the inside— and he would probably have to use metal thread. He doesn’t doubt that Dobby could procure some for him, but Harry’s only ever sewn using usual soft thread, and sewing runes with metal thread could take him all night. Is it better to stay up all night so that his school bag is warded, or to get a proper night’s sleep so he’s alert and energized the following day?

Harry’s stomach twists at the thought of leaving his bag unwarded and vulnerable to tampering. And really, is he really going to get any sleep either way? There’s no way he’ll be comfortable drifting off in the snake pit, even if his bed is warded. He’ll just have to make sure to grab some coffee the next morning.

Around him, the meal is winding down. At the head table, Dumbledore stands to give his usual speech, but he is rather rudely cut off by the new Defense professor, a pink-clad witch who Harry recognizes from his trial.

Harry grits his teeth as he listens to her little speech; he already has a feeling this year’s professor may be his least favorite yet, and considering he’s had both a Death Eater and someone who literally had Voldemort on the back of his head, that’s really saying something.

Umbridge’s speech finally pulls to a close, and the students around him begin rising from their seats, the first years chattering excitedly about how they’ll soon get to see what the Slytherin common room looks like. Quite without Harry noticing, Malfoy and Parkinson rise and come to stand near the end of the Slytherin table. With an unhappy jolt, Harry realizes that as prefects, they’re here to escort the first years to the dungeons.

“Potter,” Malfoy says. He seems to be trying to pull up his usual sneer, but it isn’t quite fitting right. “Fancy seeing Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, sitting among the snakes.”

“You know, Malfoy,” Harry says, “I’ll pay you ten galleons if you can persuade the Hat to put me somewhere other than Slytherin. Hell, I’ll double that if you can get it to Sort me back into Gryffindor.”

With that, Harry stands and heads towards the exit.

“What, hoping you can slip back into Gryffindor tower without anyone noticing?” Malfoy calls after him. “I doubt your fat pink portrait will let you in. Like it or not, the Hat has somehow seen fit to place you in our illustrious house, and that means that you’re stuck with us now.”

“Believe me, Malfoy,” Harry replies over his shoulder. “I’m well aware. Like I said, twenty galleons. Think about it.”

With that, Harry slips through the crowd of students, doing his best to ignore the way that they stare and flinch away from him. At least no one is whispering about him being the Heir of Slytherin— yet. Harry resists the urge to find some wood to knock on.

Once he’s out of the crowd, he swings his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and ducks into a hidden passage he discovered ages ago on the Marauder’s Map. From there, he jogs along dusty corridors until he pops out at the bit of damp dungeon wall that he knows conceals the Slytherin common room.

Harry hesitates, staring at the mossy stones. He had been planning to slip in behind some of the Slytherins, but none of them appear to have arrived yet; in his haste not to be late, Harry had actually gotten there far before he meant to.

It really would be nice to get in a little bit early, Harry thinks; it would allow him even more time to set up his wards.

Glancing around quickly to be sure that no one is nearby, Harry opens his mouth and commands, “open.”

A door in the wall reveals itself and slides open; Harry ducks inside, glad that there doesn’t seem to be anyone in the common room to see. Behind him, the door closes with an ominous-sounding click; Harry swallows and reminds himself that by all logic if Parseltongue was enough to get him in, it will be more than enough to get him out.

Harry has already seen the Slytherin common room once before, but back when he’d snuck in under Polyjuice, he hadn’t been able to really look around at it without blowing his cover. Now, he can take the time to examine everything properly.

Unlike the round Gryffindor common room, the Slytherin common room is an elongated rectangular shape that extends partially under the Black Lake. The walls of the eastern part of the room are punctuated with intricate gothic style windows, complete with what appear to be window seats. Harry can just imagine that they would be a perfect place to sit and watch the lake; if not for the company he would be forced to keep by doing so, he could imagine making one of them his new study spot.

Overhead, a huge glass dome reaches into the lake, allowing dapples of green-tinted light to dance along the dark wood of the room’s high-backed chairs and long bookshelves. Long bookshelves that, Harry can’t help but think, must hold a great many fascinating books with just the sort of knowledge he needs to fight Voldemort. Under an ornate mantlepiece in the shape of a coiled serpent, a fire hisses and pops in a way that could almost be interpreted as welcoming.

Devoid of potential enemies, the common room feels… surprisingly peaceful. Then again, Harry thinks wryly, it's clear that his tastes have grown warped since by the end of the summer he’d begun to find Grimmauld Place’s resentful halls almost charming.

Harry shakes himself out of his thoughts; it’s a bad idea to linger, and on any account, he needs to find the fifth year dorm so he can ward his bed. He yanks his gaze away from the tempting rows of books and starts skimming the walls for any other doors.

It takes a bit of looking around but he manages to find a hallway that seems to branch off into the various boys’ dormitories. A little bit more than halfway down the hallway is a door of dark wood which bears an elegant nameplate reading Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, & Harry Potter. Harry’s eyebrows rise involuntarily— he knows there are more Slytherins in his year than that.

It abruptly occurs to him that having multiple dorm rooms would be just like the smarmy, overprivileged gits, and sure enough, a glance to the left reveals another dorm, this one with a plaque reading Gregory Goyle, Theodore Nott, & Vincent Crabbe. Rolling his eyes, Harry puts his hand to the door of his new dorms and gently pushes it open.

The room within surprisingly similar to his own dorm back in Gryffindor Tower, if devoid of his dorm’s mess of unpaired socks, lost homework, and dirty clothes. The walls are bare of Ron’s bright orange Chudley Cannons banners and Dean’s football posters, of the pictures of his friends that Seamus had Spellotaped everywhere. And, of course, it’s clad in green and silver instead of red and gold.

Harry steps a little further inside, looking around curiously. On top of having fewer dormmates, it looks like the Slytherins also have bigger dorm rooms in general— this is the most expansive dorm Harry’s ever seen. He supposes that the dungeons have more room than Gryffindor does.

Harry shakes himself. It’s not like it matters much either way. Putting his thoughts on the dorm room aside, he turns to try to figure out which bed will be his.

As it turns out, his trunk is positioned in front of the four-poster bed that is (he grimaces) the farthest from the door. Harry kneels in front of it and hisses “Jamesss and Lily”. There’s a cascade of soft clicks and whirs from the locking mechanism on his trunk, and then the worn lid of his trunk falls open.

Unlike in years past, the interior is quite neat; Harry’s preteen habit of being as messy as humanly possible just for the sheer delight of not being forced into cleanliness by Aunt Petunia has waned and he’s begun to keep his things methodically organized, just because of how much easier it makes his life.

Harry grabs his notebook and slips the penknife that he uses to keep his quills sharp from the cheap pouch he keeps it in. After a moment’s thought, he grabs the bookbag he’ll be carrying his things in, as well. That done, Harry closes the lid behind him and shoves the trunk fully under his bed before sitting down on the almost excessively soft sheets of the bed that’s been assigned to him.

Even with the room empty around him, Harry feels painfully exposed. A quick flip of his wand has the thick green curtains snapping shut, and he finds himself letting out a little sigh of relief. He may not have any wards up, but just having a physical barrier between him and any potential enemies makes him feel a little bit better.

Harry flips his notebook open to the page where he’d carefully plotted out the best runic sequence he’ll use to ward his bed. He can’t help but run over it just one more time, making sure that he won’t be making any silly mistakes. That done, he unfolds his penknife, checking the sharpness on the pad of one of his fingers; a bead of blood wells up instantly, thick and ruby red.

Satisfied, Harry rises to sit on his haunches so that he can reach the very top of the headboard. He glances down at the first rune to make sure he knows exactly what it looks like, and then takes his knife to the wood. The wood is dense and hard, and it feels like the penknife is making about as much impact in the wood as his fingernail would, but Harry grits his teeth and presses on, going over it again and again until he’s finally satisfied with its depth.

Harry has just finished engraving the first rune and is shaking the cramps out of his hand when he hears the door open and two sets of approaching footsteps.

“—no way it Sorted him here of its own free will,” Malfoy says. “If you ask me, this is some sort of ploy by Dumbledore; he’s trying to butt his head into Slytherin’s inner workings.”

Zabini hums thoughtfully but doesn’t reply. Harry hears a sound that he thinks must be Malfoy flopping back onto his bed, and then he says, “I know you’ve got some sort of comment by that face you’re making. Spit it out, then.”

Zabini speaks, his voice low and surprisingly smooth. “I don’t think Dumbledore arranged this, since he looked as shocked as anyone else there. Besides, it's clear if you think it through that this would, in reality, be an idiotic move to make. There’s no way a bullheaded Gryffindor like Potter would be able to make any sort of political change in Slytherin. It’s only going to make the other houses even more suspicious of him than they already are; Potter being here is a net negative for Dumbledore.”

“What, so you think Potter actually belongs here?” Malfoy snorts. “That the Hat looked at him and said—” he affects a whispery voice that sounds disturbingly similar to the Hat’s, “—‘Potter, you’re the most ambitious and resourceful student since Salazar Slytherin himself, I have no choice but to send you to the House of the Snakes’?”

“No,” Zabini replies, “I think the Hat Sorted him here for its own reasons. It had been singing about house unity before the Sorting, hadn’t it?”

Harry shakes himself and turns back to the headboard. Another quick wave of his wand raises a one-way silencing charm which will let in sound from outside, but not let out sound from within; he returns to his work, keeping half an ear on the conversation Zabini and Malfoy are having.

“Sending Potter to Slytherin in the hopes of ‘improving house unity’ does sound like the sort of inane thing a faulty old enchantment would come up with,” Malfoy muses. It’s the closest Harry’s ever heard to him admitting that he could have been wrong about something.

Zabini hums. “Did you see Professor Snape’s reaction?” he asks lightly.

When Malfoy speaks next, Harry can tell just by the tone of voice that he’s smirking. “Yes, I did. I dare say that Potter won’t be enjoying any more of the sort of favoritism that McGonagall showered on him.”

A frisson of ice creeps through Harry, like freezing water expanding outward to crack stone. For a moment, he wants to rage helplessly, a wild thing thrashing in its cage, but he bites his anger back and concentrates on the runes that he’s carving.

“Do you think that Dumbledore’s view of him will change, then?” There’s a rustling sound like Malfoy just rolled onto his stomach. In a thoughtful, light voice, he adds, “It’s a rather interesting philosophical question. Which is stronger, Dumbledore’s adoration for his precious Boy-Who-Lived, or his hatred of Slytherins?”

“That’s assuming he doesn’t believe that it was the Sorting Hat going rogue,” Zabini replies. “It’ll be just like with the Triwizard Tournament; all of the blame will slide off of Potter’s back like ink off of augurey feathers. If we’re lucky, Dumbledore will twinkle a bit disapprovingly at him, and that will be it.”

Malfoy sighs. “I suppose I can’t get everything that I would like,” he says mournfully.

Harry wants to snort. He doesn’t think Malfoy would know deprivation if it slapped him across the face. It reminds him of Dudley, complaining of being hungry when he really just wanted sweets for the taste of them and not to appease the same sort of yawning emptiness Harry used to carry in his belly each day like familiar chains.

His last rune finally finished, Harry lifts the penknife from the wood and slashes it across his hand. Blood oozes out, viscous and thick, a color richer and more full than even the most distinguished wine. For a moment, Harry can think only of blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, and the coldness of the glass vial pressed against his arm, collecting his lifeblood as it drains from him.

“Well,” Malfoy says in a resigned tone, “I suppose I had better hunt down the Boy Wonder before he—”

Harry doesn’t hear what he’s supposedly going to do if he’s left alone without Malfoy to babysit him, because he’s too busy raising his dripping hand and slamming it into the headboard. There’s a rush of heat, and the runes glow like embers who sleep lightly and dream of fire. In the same instant, there’s a shockwave of force spreading outward, making his ears pop like he’s just changed elevations.

In the wake of that, Harry supposes there’s no point in staying behind his curtains, even if it is funny to think of Malfoy wandering the dungeons looking for Harry all night. He sweeps the curtain open with the hand that isn’t dripping blood.

Malfoy’s gone the milky, blue-tinted shade of skim milk, but Harry is too busy moving quickly so as not to bleed on the purebloods’ nice wooden flooring to notice. With his left hand closed and out of the way to try to keep from dripping too much, he touches his trunk and thinks Jamesss and Lily as loudly and clearly as he can. The lid swings open, and he replaces his penknife and notebook with the set of clothes that he usually wears to bed.

Another tap and the trunk closes. Harry rises, his left hand still held just a little bit apart, and heads to the bathroom door. Despite his best efforts, beads of blood still gleam on the floor like dropped jewels.

Malfoy and Zabini watch him go, their eyes weighing heavy on his back.

Sewing runes into his school bag with metal threads is difficult and rather painful work, but it doesn’t take as long as Harry had initially anticipated. By a quarter past midnight, Harry has developed the beginnings of blisters on the pads of his fingers, gained several cuts from where the rough metal thread sliced him, and is in possession of a school bag that could withstand a small-to-moderately-large nuclear detonation. With a grim, satisfied smile playing about his lips, Harry settles in to try to get a bit of sleep.

In the end, the most he manages is a shallow doze. He startles awake at every suspicious noise, hand immediately jolting under the pillow to clasp around his wand; even the protection of his blood-infused ward scheme isn’t enough to make him feel truly secure.

Then again, would anything?

After what seems like an eternity spent tossing and turning, Harry at last manages to fall into a more sustained slumber—only to find himself waking quite irrevocably at half-past five, on the dot. He doubts he’ll be able to fall back asleep; a lifetime of Aunt Petunia’s sharp raps and shrill yelling has left him thoroughly conditioned to wake up early and stay awake. Besides, after the turbulent night that he’s just endured, Harry has little interest in attempting a lie-in anyway.

Harry rolls out of his bed and dresses quickly, shoving his glasses onto his nose and holstering his wand in the scratched leather sheath that Mad-Eye gave him. On light feet, he fetches his broom. The varnished wood is a familiar texture under his fingers; for a moment, Harry thinks of Sirius, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he wonders about his godfather’s response— but no, agonizing over that is a waste of his time. It’s not as though it will gain him anything, not as though raging against the unfairness of it all will change a thing. So instead of lingering on thoughts of Sirius, Harry props his Firebolt over his shoulder and heads out to the Quidditch pitch.

When Harry was first placed onto the team in his first year, Oliver Wood’s unquenchable Quidditch-mania and his own Dursley-fueled desire to placate everyone around him had resulted in Harry suffering from an unholy level of anxiety surrounding his Quidditch skills. Continually stressed about if he was good enough, Harry had quickly gotten into the habit of going flying every morning as a way to get in just a little bit more practice time.

Quidditch has become less important to him since then, but the habit has stayed. Harry’s found that these early morning flights serve as a sort of catharsis— a way to help him stay sane in a school (and society) that decidedly is not. Even last year, when Quidditch itself was banned, Harry still went gliding around the grounds with religious regularity; it was the only time he felt like something approaching himself.

It’s been a long time since he was last able to go flying, especially on a proper pitch, and it feels incredible to stretch his wings again. Pulling into a tight corkscrew, Harry lets out a whoop of sheer, raw joy as he wheels rapidly towards the ground. Just before he flattens himself into a fleshy pancake on the pitch, he pivots upwards, passing close enough to the ground that he can run his fingers through the dew-strewn grass.

Shaking the water from his hand, he soars up, up, up through the crisp morning air until he reaches a decent height, whereupon he comes to a stop and stares absently down at the ground below as he thinks.

Harry hadn’t had the foresight to bring his notebook along with him, but honestly, even if he had, he doesn’t think most of his notes on aerial combat would be very useful; Harry’d been mostly covered the logistics of dogfighting which, while certainly possible on brooms, operates on the assumption that both combatants will be in the air. Harry doubts that any of his opponents will have the foresight to engage him in such a way; instead, he suspects that, at least initially, the use of brooms in magical combat will primarily be against opponents on the ground.

Harry flattens himself to the handle of his broom and dives, hurtling towards the grass of the pitch at such a speed that the wind whipping his face forces tears to well in his eyes. Grinning with adrenaline, he rolls off his broom, lands lightly on his feet, and jogs across the pitch to the Gryffindor changing room.

The key’s in the usual place, and Harry’s hands still remember how to jimmy the lock so it doesn’t stick. He jams his shoulder into the frame and the door opens with a creak of protest that indicates it’s the first time someone’s entered it since Dumbledore told them there would be no Quidditch at the opening feast the previous year.

The locker room looks about the same as always; the same stained shower towers, the same dusty old chalkboard, and, yes, the same wrinkled stack of parchment and rumpled quill that Wood had used to write down long-term strategy ideas.

Silently promising to replace them once he has a chance, Harry grabs the parchment and ink and hurries back out again, locking the door behind him.

There are three Quidditch hoops at each end of the pitch; Harry’d rather not waste his time weaving back and forth between the two sides, so he’ll just use the northern end. That means he’ll be facing three opponents— or rather, mimicries of three opponents. He figures there are three good targets on any wizard— the head, the chest, and the wand hand. He can’t really approximate the placement of the wand hand, so he’ll just go with the chest and the head for now.

After Harry draws six targets, he attaches them to the poles of the Quidditch hoop at about the height they would be on an actual person. Once he’s satisfied with their placement, he heads back up into the air, rising until he thinks he’d be far enough away to avoid spellfire if his targets really were wizards.

Not for the first time, Harry curses his bad eyesight. He can’t make out any of the rings of the targets, only the pale flash of parchment where they flap in the wind. Facing off against a real opponent, he won’t even have that much indication; it’s not as though his opponents will helpfully color code their outfits so they’re wearing clearly visible white hats and shirts when they fight.

Harry draws closer again. He’ll just have to adjust his strategy and plan to dodge instead of simply staying out of range. It’ll be challenging to practice the dodging aspect, since he can’t imagine either Ron or Hermione being willing to wake up at half-past five in the morning to go throw spells at him, but he’s sure he’ll be able to figure some sort of solution out.

Sometimes, Harry thinks with a grimace, he finds it a bit ironic that someone with such bad eyesight plays seeker. Then again, the truth is that he doesn’t locate the snitch so much by keen eyesight as by his ability to track movements with unerring accuracy, a skill he learned at the tender hands of Dudley Dursley. With that skill in mind, it may actually be easier for him to aim at live targets than these stationary facsimiles.

Either way, now is hardly the time to think about it. Putting those thoughts aside for later, Harry draws his wand and starts casting down at his imagined foes.

Sometime later, Harry heads back into the castle with his broom over his shoulder and a pocketful of charred parchment targets tucked in his pocket.

The halls are empty, filled with the kind of thick, deep quiet that can be only built on the slumber of a thousand dreaming children curled up in their beds. Without anyone around to stare at him or whisper behind their hands, Harry lets his steps slow, lets himself trail his hand along the dimpled castle wall with a soft touch like a son greeting his mother with a chaste kiss on her cheek.

His steps slow even further as he enters the dungeons. His hand drops from the wall and some of the warmth and vitality brought to him by fresh air and the pale, white-wine sunlight of the pre-dawn leaves him. Still, when he reaches the entrance he squares his shoulders and hisses open under his breath instead of simply turning and fleeing like he wants to.

A quick glance around shows that the common room is empty. Placing each step carefully, Harry creeps over to the library and skims the various titles— the Influence of the Moors on the Magic of the Iberian Peninsula, An Exhaustive Encyclopedia of Edicts Effecting Edinburgh, and (Harry grimaces) Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. He’s just about to turn away in frustration and disgust when his eye catches on another book: Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies.

Harry is about to take a closer look when he hears the tell-tale sound of footsteps behind the door to the girl’s dorms. Shoving the book into his bag, he hurries back into his dorm room.

As far as he can tell, his new— Harry’s mouth twists with disgust— dorm mates are still asleep. Harry puts his broom away, along with his new book, which he covers with the dust jacket from Quidditch Through the Ages. He doesn’t want any of the Slytherins to start harassing him about stealing from their library or anything like that; he has enough problems as it is. That done, Harry grabs some clean clothes and heads to the showers.

Just like everything else in the dorm, the bathroom is disarmingly pleasant; the facade of hospitality almost reminds Harry of the vague, pleasant fog the Imperius curse brought— the same fog that Harry had never been foolish enough to trust.

Inset in the smooth walls are several clean, creamy-tiled showers, along with a tub big enough for even the tallest seventh year to lay down stretched all of the ways out in. Hanging on the wall adjacent to the showers are the kind of sinfully fluffy towels that Aunt Petunia would have punished him for touching, as well as a full cabinet of expensive-looking shampoos, conditioners, and soaps. The whole thing makes him feel very small and grubby and brings to mind the shame that always rose in him when he saw other schoolchildren in their nice, clean clothing with their smooth, silky hair and their chubby little faces scrubbed pink by their soft-handed mothers. It’s not a good feeling, and Harry has to take a minute to banish it before he can turn his attention back to the task at hand.

Figuring that the toiletries are owned by his dorm mates and, again, hardly wanting to be accused of thievery, Harry grabs the bar of soap from the bathroom sink. It’s still unnervingly fancy; it’s the sort of thick, creamy soap that Aunt Petunia might splurge on as a treat, and there are little pinkish-reddish bits of what Harry thinks must be some sort of flower mixed in it, but, well, Harry knows that the Slytherins are snobbish enough that this is the best he’s going to get. Soap in hand, Harry heads to the shower stall with the best view of the entrance and turns on the water.

Water pours from the showerhead in a hot, steady stream. The pressure and temperature are just right, so perfect that Harry is sure there must be some sort of enchantment on the shower in some fashion or another. He can’t help but let out a slow sigh of pleasure the hot water thuds into his tense, knotted shoulders, although he still isn’t fool enough to close his eyes.

After lingering in the shower for long enough that Aunt Petunia would surely pinch him black and blue if she ever found out, Harry reluctantly steps out and, instinctively avoiding the fluffy, thick towels hung nearby, pulls on his school uniform.

His dorm mates are still asleep, so Harry quietly packs his school bag; after a long, reluctant moment, he leaves his notebook full of strategies behind. Even with his bag warded, he’s simply not comfortable bringing it out; there’s too much chance Malfoy will realize from his behavior that it’s important to him and snatch it out of his hands out of sheer spite. Harry will have to ward it as soon as he can so that he can work in it whenever he likes, and not just when he can be sure that Malfoy and the other Slytherins aren’t nearby.

Bag slung over his shoulder, Harry heads into the common room. As he does, he hums a muggle song he used to hear on the Dursleys’ telly and absently shakes his wet hair off of his collar with a little flick of his neck. His strides are long and loose; although still characterized by the habitual lightness that life at Number Four, Privet Drive has instilled in him, his posture is straight and confident, and he moves with the practiced grace of someone who never had the luxury of a sedentary life.

That is, all of those things are true until Harry happens to look up and notice the dozen or so Slytherins arrayed across the room, all of whom, it seems, are watching him. Harry’s voice dies in his throat, and he feels the abrupt urge to smash the glass wall behind him and go take a dip in the Great Lake. The mermaids hadn’t been so bad, right? Sure, they had attacked him and all, but at least they’d been upfront about it instead of staring at him like he’s the weird one.

Shaking off their lingering gazes, Harry heads to a nearby couch. He intends to sit down gracefully, but somewhere along the way, the fatigue from, well, everything catches up with him all at once, and he more collapses onto it than sits. He can feel the Slytherins’ staring intensifying, and he bites back a groan only through sheer effort.

Too late, Harry realizes that he really should have a cast glamour over himself. Most of the parts of him that he wants to conceal are already covered by his robes, but not all of them. There’s still the dark circles undoubtedly forming under his eyes, and the hollowness that hasn’t quite left his cheeks, and although of course it’s pointless to glamour away the existence of his lightning bolt scar, Harry’s found that it helps if he at least conceals how red it gets, sometimes. It’s too late now, though; he’ll just have to remember for tomorrow.

Harry allows himself a moment longer, and then he forces himself upright into something approximating a sitting position. He pulls out the disguised copy of Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies that he’d filched from the Slytherin library earlier and flips to the first page; without his notebook, he won’t be able to take notes, but he did steal a set of post-its along with Dudley’s old notebook, so he can mark all of the pages of interest for later and hopefully, that will help him remember all of his ideas.

Harry can tell just from the table of contents that this is going to be an excellent book but, before he can so much as open the first chapter, there’s a movement in his peripheral vision. Harry flicks his eyes over, already sure it has nothing to do with him, just in time to see Zabini cutting a clear path across the room to him. Harry had noticed that he was out in the common room— it had been hard not to, when Zabini had been one of the Slytherins staring the hardest at him— but he had been hoping that Zabini would leave him alone.

“Good morning,” Zabini says, once he’s reached Harry.

His voice is just as smooth and cultured as it had been the night before; a smooth, low timber that instinctively makes anyone listening wish he would never fall silent. Harry, on the other hand, automatically hates it on the basis that things around him are never pleasant, and anything that seems pleasant is thus both unpleasant and also lying.

Harry realizes that he’s been quiet for a touch longer than is socially acceptable, and forces himself to flatly repeat “...good morning,” back to his unwelcome visitor. Even Harry can make out the wariness edging his voice like the bristle of the serrations on a blade.

In a smooth, casually elegant movement, Zabini sits down beside him on the couch. Harry tenses, eyes darting to Zabini’s wand hand quickly; his own hand creeps up his sleeve, finger curling as he prepares to flick his wrist and draw his wand.

Zabini either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because his long-fingered hands are loose and empty where they dangle from the edge of the couch. His voice conveys that same baffling relaxation as he speaks. “I wanted to apologize for the incident last night. I had not realized you were in the room, otherwise—”

Harry can’t prevent himself from laughing. Zabini’s eyebrows rise, thick and graceful and as utterly bewildering as the rest of him.

In the wake of that disapproving eyebrow raise, Harry tries to compose himself. He even opens his mouth to try to explain himself, but as soon as he does, he’s folding over again, devolving into peals of laughter.

Harry takes a deep breath and speaks. “Sorry, it’s just—” He wipes away a tear of mirth, “just— j—” Harry loses the battle and promptly collapses into laughter once more. Maybe it’s just how tired he is, but this entire situation is just so absurd that he’s looped right around from terrified to utterly unconcerned and entirely amused.

Zabini’s aristocratic face with its high, elegant cheekbones and handsome features is wrinkled in a mixture of shock and confusion; for some reason, the expression sends Harry into a new fit of hysterics strong enough that his skinny body is actually convulsing with laughter.

In the end, Harry has to whack himself on the chest several times to avoid choking and prevent himself from laughing any further. Still grinning, he takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and admits, “I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in years.”

Zabini is staring at him with an unreadable expression; with the ease of long practice, Harry cheerfully disregards it. Instead, he tucks his book back into his bag and, stifling a yawn behind a minutely trembling hand, leaves the Slytherin common room behind.

It feels odd heading to the Great Hall so early in the morning; usually Harry waits until Ron is ready and heads down with him. The halls contain a sparse scattering of students in an odd compromise between the peaceful silence Harry enjoys when he heads out flying very early in the morning, and the chaotic bustle he’s used to at the normal time he goes down to eat breakfast.

The Great Hall itself is similarly underpopulated, likely because there isn’t even any food on the tables yet. The only professor at the high table is a witch with high, broad cheekbones and long dark hair who Harry is pretty sure teaches Arithmancy; the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables each have a few bare clumps of upperclassmen, and that is the sum total residency. The only person Harry recognizes in the hall is Luna, whose pale, gleaming head is bent over the Quibbler.

Harry is about to start over to her when he hears a familiar voice gasp out, “—Harry?”

He turns and gets a brief glimpse of bushy hair and brown eyes before Hermione is pulling him into her arms, one of her frizzy curls tickling his nose as she squeezes him to within an inch of his life

After a long moment, Hermione pulls back, examining his face closely. Harry’s hypothesis about needing a glamour is clearly right because whatever she sees is enough to make her tut disapprovingly. For a moment, Harry worries she’s going to pick up right where she left off during her summer lectures about taking care of himself and processing his emotion in healthy ways and all that rot, but luckily, she doesn’t say a word, just frowns a little and loops her arm through his as they start walking to the Gryffindor table.

“You’re not angry?” Harry can’t help but ask.

“No,” Hermione tells him. “I was surprised at first, of course— you’ve always seemed like such a textbook Gryffindor, you know, with the….” she waves her hands around vaguely, “—but… I was thinking, and, well.” She lowers her voice. “You’ve been being very resourceful and cunning, this summer, when it comes to, well, you know. Not that’s a bad thing!” she quickly reassures him. “In fact— well, frankly, I think that it’s a good thing. Defeating— defeating You-Know-Who is a very lofty goal, and so it makes sense that you’re becoming more ambitious and, well, Slytherin. And…”

Hermione hesitates and then forges onwards in a low whisper. “And honestly? I think you might be able to learn something from it. Even if a lot of what the Slytherins do is awful and immoral and terrible, they… they know a lot about politics and how to achieve their goals and things like that and… I think that you might be able to learn something from being in Slytherin. As uncomfortable and lonely as it is,” she adds quickly.

Harry nods. He thinks that Hermione just might be right; hadn’t he come across an incredibly useful book about fighting dirty that he would never have been able to access if not for being in Slytherin now? There may be more books like that, interspersed between the thick tomes on genealogy and books on etiquette from the fourteenth century. He’ll do well to spend his energy figuring out what he can get out of this new arrangement, instead of what he might lose.

“What about Ron?” Harry asks hesitantly. “Is he…” he trails off, unable to give voice to his fears.

Hermione bites her lip, making Harry’s heart sink like a stone. “Well,” Hermione explains hesitantly, “he certainly wasn’t happy at first— but it’s clear that he realizes this isn’t your fault.” Even though there’s no one close enough to hear them, she lowers her voice as she continues. “A lot of students seem to think that the Hat put you in Slytherin because of what it was saying about unity during the song— which I think is ridiculous, the Hat would never Sort someone somewhere it didn’t think they belonged— and Ron agrees with them wholeheartedly. He’s sure the whole thing is a mistake, and that Professor Dumbledore will sort it out quickly, and you’ll be back in Gryffindor in no time.”

“...and do you think Dumbledore will be able to put me back in Gryffindor?” Harry asks. As he speaks, there’s a cascade of low, quiet popping and dishes begin to appear around them. Harry picks up a piece of toast and begins to methodically shred it into tiny, crumbling pieces.

Hermione hesitates. “Well… it was pretty clear that you were arguing with the Hat, judging by the way it had to tell you to go to Slytherin twice. I was reading in Hogwarts, a History last night, and the final judgment on where a student goes really is up to the Hat— so unless Professor Dumbledore has something really convincing to say to the Hat, beyond the arguments you already made…”

“So no, then,” Harry says glumly. He’d reasoned and begged and threatened, but his words seemed to have crested over the Hat with about the same impact as a wave destroying itself on the ocean cliffs. He doubts Dumbledore will fare any better.

Hermione opens her mouth like she’s about to try to reassure him, but she’s interrupted by the opening of the doors of the Great Hall. What must be half of Slytherin pours in, all green ties and perfectly pressed school robes and smooth soft skin. Harry can already feel their gazes heavy and sticky as honey coating his skin; he suppresses a shiver and thrusts his shoulders back into the military-straight posture that Aunt Petunia had demanded he assume whenever she was forced to be seen in public with him.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Harry tells Hermione shortly. He shoves his toast aside, brushes off the crumbs clinging to his fingers, and pulls his school bag over his shoulder. Hermione’s brow furrows and Harry can tell she’s chewing on the inside of her lip, but she only nods.

“Good luck out there, Harry,” she says quietly. She grabs his hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “I’m here if you need me.”

Harry nods. “...thank you,” he says. Then he slips his hand out of hers and heads for the exit— only to collide with Professor McGonagall as he tries to leave.

“Mr. Potter.” Just like with Hermione, McGonagall doesn’t seem happy with whatever she sees in his face; her thin, stiff lips turn down disapprovingly as her eyes flick over his face. “I am afraid that I must ask you to return to your House table so that I and your other professors can properly distribute the class schedules.”

It sounds like bullshit to Harry— why can’t Professor McGonagall just give him the class schedule right now?— and he’s about to tell her so but… it’s hardly as if it’s worth the breath. Instead of giving voice to his thoughts, he just nods shortly and spins on his heel.

For whatever reason, none of the first years are among the newly arrived Slytherin students. That’s fine: Harry will just sit with the second years. However, when he approaches the nearest second year, a petite girl with an oddly familiar facial structure and dark, wavy hair, she tells him that she’s saving the seat for someone else and that there’s an empty seat for him next to her sister.

“Your sister?” Harry echoes.

“Daphne Greengrass,” she tells him, and then nods to the blonde-haired girl who had seemed to be offering a seat to him, the night before.

Harry laughs softly. Whoever said that Slytherins were subtle clearly just wasn’t paying attention. “Well,” he says. “Thanks anyway.”

Now to figure out what to actually do. Maybe just sit at the end of the table, alone? That will fulfill Professor McGonagall’s requirement of him being at the Slytherin table, after all. Or he could—

A familiar arm loops around his shoulder, and a warm hand ruffles his hair. “Harry!” a familiar voice crows. “Our favorite little Dark Lord!”

“Fred,” Harry sighs, turning.

“Actually,” George informs him, “I’m Fred.”

“And I,” Fred tells him, “am George.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Fred has a different freckle pattern than George, he doesn’t know why they even bother— or why it works on so many people. “What do you two want?”

“Nothing much, just wanted to congratulation you on your new House!” Fred grins.

George pulls Harry in closer and whispers, “and to remind you that if you need anything—”

“And we mean anything, Fred interjects. “Maiming, removal of Pureblooded knee caps, the works—”

“—just tell us.” George smirks, his teeth a bright ivory gleam against his freckled face. “After all,” he adds in that same low whisper, “we can hardly lose our first, best investor, can we?”

With one last ruffle of his hair, the twins head back to the Gryffindor table, leaving Harry standing awkwardly in the middle of the Great Hall, his hair mussed up and his decision about where, exactly, to sit no closer to being made than before.

Harry absently and fruitlessly attempts to pat his hair down. “I thought the Weasley twins hated Slytherins,” he can hear one of the second years say as he does so. “My brother told me to watch out for them. That they can be really nasty.”

Harry’s eyes flick over to the speaker, who promptly goes white and falls silent at once. She’s a skinny girl with a mass of curly auburn hair, almost as thick as Hermione’s but a good deal less frizzy. Maybe it’s that reminder of Hermione, but Harry can’t find it within himself to be angry at her, not the way she seems to expect.

She’s just a child, after all. Just eleven or twelve.

“If they are,” Harry says instead. “If they do something they shouldn’t to someone who doesn’t deserve it— tell me.”

The girl’s mouth actually drops open, and she looks positively stunned.

“Do you truly mean that?” Daphne Greengrass’s little sister asks, her cultured voice politely skeptical.

“I’m not much for bullying,” Harry says, his eyes inadvertently sliding up the table to where Draco Malfoy is sitting.

For a moment, silence hangs in the air, stretched thin and taut. And then the doors to the Great Hall open once more, and the other half of Slytherin House enters— all of the first years, with a few prefects out in front of them, and a mixture of students from the other years.

“Excuse me,” one of the prefects says, “Would you mind sitting down? You’re standing in the path.”

Behind him, Jodie Stems waves at him a bit shyly.

Harry flashes as much of a smile as he can muster at Stems, then nods curtly to the prefect.

Steps heavy with reluctance, he approaches the spot where the fifth year Slytherins are sitting. Just as the younger Greengrass sister had said, there’s a seat waiting for him in between Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini.

Harry hesitates for a long moment, then slides into his given seat.

“Good morning,” Daphne Greengrass says. Her voice is sweet and low, with a melodious note to it. Just like with Zabini, Harry immediately distrusts it on the basis of how pleasant it sounds.

“Good morning,” Harry returns tersely.

“My name is Daphne Greengrass,” she says.

Harry nods. “Yes, your sister told me.”

There’s a long moment of quiet. Greengrass opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, then closes it again and simply dips her head in a nod. Harry smiles, dry and humorless, and begins serving himself breakfast. He goes for the lightest fare he can; fried tomatoes, some beans and mushrooms, a single fried egg, and a cup of black coffee.

Harry eats slowly, cutting his food into tiny bites and nursing his black coffee at a leisurely pace. He’s still half-full from indulging the previous night, and normally he would have skipped breakfast altogether, but having food in his mouth is too excellent of a way to avoid conversation for him to pass up.

Hogwarts students are still filtering into the Great Hall in clumps and clusters; Harry can see a few people doing double-takes at seeing him sitting at the Slytherin table, as though they thought that the previous night was just a strange dream produced by some fever-addled mind.

“Potter!” Harry turns in his seat: Angelina is approaching, her long braids whipping about behind her as she strides purposefully over. “Didya really have to go and do this this year? I’m Quidditch Captain, you know, not Wood, so it’s not as if this is going to help you get back on him for his long-winded pregame lectures.”

“You try getting the Hat to change its mind,” Harry retorts dryly. “Stubborn bastard.” Spitefully, he adds, “You’d think it’d listen to what I have to say, after…” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as he thinks of the Chamber of Secrets, facing the basilisk with nothing but Fawkes and a sword he didn’t know how to use. His brows raise slightly as he recalls the Sword of Gryffindor— that’s an argument he hadn’t thought to use. Hadn’t Dumbledore said that only a true Gryffindor could wield it?

“Yes, well,” Angelina says, “Everyone can tell that the Hat’s gone a bit barmy. The important thing is— you’re still going to be able to play Seeker, right?”

“Obviously not,” Malfoy cuts in with a sneer.

“No one asked your opinion, Malfoy,” Angelina shoots back without even glancing in his direction. “So, Harry?”

Harry shrugs. The truth is, even if he can play on the Gryffindor Quidditch team this year, he’d rather not. That time would be better spent learning spells, or studying runes, or practicing dueling. “I imagine you’d have to get Snape’s permission,” he tells her.

Angelina grimaces. “Well,” she sighs. “I suppose I should have expected that.” She lays a hand on his shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah?” She scans the surrounding Slytherins with a keen eye, in a clear warning.

Ignoring the bundle of warmth forming in his belly, Harry nods. With one last glance around, Angelina ruffles the same rat’s nest that the twins had already messed up past the point of no return and heads back to the Gryffindor table.

“I feel like I’m getting a shovel talk from my inamorato’s overprotective family,” Zabini says dryly.

Harry flushes, which only seems to make Zabini's smirk deepen.

Angelina has scarcely left the Slytherin table when the usual flurry of owls begins swooping down from the upper windows, glossy-feathered and glistening with rain. Harry anxiously scans the air, searching for any glimpse of familiar snow-white, but Hedwig is nowhere to be seen. He forces himself to let out a slow breath; it’s only been a single night, and Sirius may not even know the outcome of the Sorting yet; Harry shouldn’t read into this.

Around Harry, owls alight on the shoulders and raised arms of what seems like every other Slytherin at the table. Everywhere Harry looks there is an owl; a sleek barn owl with a creamy-pale belly nuzzles against the high cheekbones of a student that Harry vaguely recognizes as being on the Slytherin Quidditch team, Malfoy is feeding his own owl a slice of crispy bacon, and Harry is amused to watch as a salt-and-pepper long-eared owl with bright, staring poppy-orange eyes valiantly attempts to preen Parkinson’s hair. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and yet Slytherins all around Harry are receiving thick envelopes with family seals on the back in wax.

They seem oddly disinclined towards opening them in public, as well. Malfoy tucks away his own letter without more than a cursory glance, and Harry sees one first year who’d begun to open their letter being stopped halfway through by a prefect who looks to be some sort of relative.

Even the older students are tucking letters into their robes and messenger bags; Harry is pretty sure that the student he recognizes from the Slytherin Quidditch team is actually in seventh year. He scoffs softly. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. It’s absurd to be so dependent on an adult; even during fourth year, Harry rarely wrote Sirius more than once or twice a month.

Greengrass looks at him a little oddly, but Harry ignores her, instead returning to the very important business of idly pushing his food around on his plate. No one else is finished eating, and the schedules haven’t been passed out yet, but Harry is more than full.

He’d been trying to build up his appetite during the summer, but between the way Mrs. Weasley always seemed to be lingering in the kitchen and the long hours Harry spent holed up in the Black library, it was all too easy to forget to eat as often as he should have. There had been days during the frantic flurry of preparation that had characterized the end of the summer when Harry had only eaten at all because Kreacher brought him food and lingered around pointedly until he made at least an attempt at it.

The thought of Kreacher makes Harry’s stomach twist. Just like he’d grown oddly partial to Grimmauld Place with its dank, dusty halls and library full of less-than-legal books, he’d grown similarly fond of Kreacher. Harry misses his gravelly, grumbling voice, his stories about Master Regulus, and, most of all, his unconditional companionship devoid of expectations or demands.

Maybe, Harry thinks hopefully, he can send Kreacher an owl. He doesn’t know if Kreacher would want to exchange correspondence with him just for the sake of mere companionship, but it shouldn’t be that hard to think of some sort of excuse to justify his letter— a request for some kind of book, or a question about Regulus, perhaps. From there, it would only be natural to include a bit more about his own life— just to be polite, of course.

Kreacher will be glad to hear about the results of his Sorting, Harry thinks dryly. Nor will he be very surprised— when Harry had mentioned the possibility that he would end up in Slytherin, it was more out of a desire to plan for every single possible danger than any real belief it would occur. Kreacher, on the other hand, had seemed to accept the idea that Harry would become a Slytherin as fact since the very onset.

Harry is drawn from his thoughts by approaching footfalls; a quick flick of his eyes confirms that Snape is drawing near to the Slytherin table. Harry braces himself, although he’s not sure against what— surely Snape couldn’t hex him out here in the open like this— and tracks the professor’s progress with the keen, unrelenting equanimity of a coiled beast poised for violence.

But Snape ignores him. Harry might as well be wearing his Invisibility Cloak, for all the attention Snape pays him; in stark contrast to the endlessly-staring Slytherin students, Snape never so much as glances his way, not even as he lays Harry’s schedule down on the table before him with long, potion-stained fingers.

Still, Harry continues to watch him with implacable forbearance until Snape has moved down the table, has handed the schedules to even the youngest of the first years, has swept out of the Great Hall with his robes snapping dramatically behind him. Only then does Harry turn his gaze back down to his schedule.

Double Charms, double Potions, Herbology, and Astronomy; Harry supposes there are worse schedules. Even the thought of Potions isn’t so terrible when it’s one of the few classes that he’ll still be sharing with Ron and Hermione. It will be awfully odd going to most of his classes without them, after all.

Harry tucks his schedule away and stands to go, ignoring the way eyes lift to follow his movements. A few of the first and second year Slytherins smile cautiously at him as he passes; Harry nods in return, which makes their smiles grow wider and more confident.

There’s still a little while before the first period starts, but not long enough for it to be worth heading to the library. Instead, Harry decides he’ll just come to Charms a bit early and do some reading while he waits at his desk.

The classroom is empty when he enters; he takes a seat in one of the corners, where he has a good view of both the entrance and the board. After he puts his things down, he slips the disguised copy of Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies from his bag and starts to read.

As predicted, the book is exactly the sort of thing he needs. The very first page has a drawing of the human body with various targets labeled; some vulnerabilities, like the gut or solar plexus, are ones that Harry is all-too-familiar with, but others, like the floating ribs, are completely unfamiliar to him. Besides, it’s not as though he’d made the connection to go after those specific areas on enemies when he was setting up the targets on the Quidditch pitch; the review is undoubtedly good for him.

Harry uses a sticky note to mark the page and continues on. He’s just reading about how a cutting curse to the Achilles tendon can hobble an opponent when the door opens and a short figure enters.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” comes a familiar high, squeaky voice.

“Hullo, Professor Flitwick,” Harry replies cautiously. After being stared at by what seems like every student, teacher, and ghost in Hogwarts after his Sorting the previous night, he half-expects the same with Flitwick. Luckily, Flitwick just nods cheerfully in reply and trots up to his desk, a hefty stack of parchment neatly bobbing along behind him as he goes.

Bemused and more than a bit relieved, Harry returns to his book. In the pleasant, almost companionable quiet that develops between him and Professor Flitwick, Harry lets his mind wander as he thinks about ways he could apply some of the tricks in the book without using a wand. Harry definitely doesn’t intend to be caught wandless, but after a whole summer spent with his wand locked away, he knows he can’t afford to rely on always having one available.

Instead of using a jelly-legs jinx to destabilize his opponent’s stance, he can sweep their feet out of under them with a well-placed kick— if he’s sufficiently close, that is. Instead of using an overpowered Lumos to blind his opponents, he can pick up dirt from the ground and throw it in their eyes— or, if he keeps on practicing, he may be able to expand his little wandless light to the point where he can achieve the same effect detailed in the book without a wand at all. Maybe he could even—

The doors open, and a deluge of sleek, well-groomed students stream in. Harry absently dog-ears his page and tucks his book away. He should really try to learn more wandless spells, he reflects. Although muggle methods definitely have merit, hand-to-hand combat relies on proximity in a way that’s a huge liability.

He drums his fingers against his desk. Another thing to add to his to-do list, then.

Harry can’t help the way his eyebrows jolt up sharply when Greengrass slides into the seat to his right. She acts like everything is normal, placidly unpacking rolls of smooth cream parchment and moving her quills around so they’re all lined up precisely, but her little performance doesn’t come even close to tricking Harry into letting his guard down.

Only a moment later, Zabini settles into the seat in front of Harry. With his usual infuriating grace, he sets down his expensive leather messenger bag and casually stretches out his long legs, acting for all the world like there’s nowhere he belongs more than sitting right in front of Harry Potter. Harry, for his part, stares blankly at the curve of Zabini’s neck just inches from his own desk, wondering what the fuck is going on.

Up at the front of the room, Professor Flitwick announces that they’re going to spend the class reviewing Summoning Charms. Harry’s first instinct is to dismiss the whole thing as a waste of time. The Summoning Charm is one of the spells whose wand movements he practiced the most over the summer, and after using it to summon the Portkey and escape the cemetery, he thinks it isn’t something he’ll ever really forget. Honestly, at this point, Harry could Summon in his sleep.

...but what about without a wand?

If he managed to master a wandless summoning charm, Harry could regain his wand after having it taken. No longer would a simple disarming charm leave him almost entirely defenseless; instead, he’d be able to leap back into the fight almost at once, now with the element of surprise on his side.

Learning how to create that little candle-light had taken quite a bit of trial and error, but Harry had managed it eventually, and honestly? Harry thinks this new skill will be more than worth the effort.

Harry starts out easy. It’s been a while since he’s done more than practice the wand movements for the Summoning Charm, and it very well may be that he’s gotten into some sort of bad habit that means he’s doing the whole thing wrong.

Either way, it’s easy to fall back on muscle memory and give the same familiar flick as before. The only difference is the wand between his fingers instead of a fork or empty air, the way Harry has to remind himself to speak instead of simply letting the incantation bubble up, unspoken, in the back of his throat.

The piece of chalk Harry was concentrating on zips over eagerly.

“Excellent job, Mr. Potter!” Professor Flitwick cheers. “I see the summer break hasn’t dulled your skills in the least! One point to G— to Slytherin.”

Harry smiles a little in absent acknowledgment and levitates the chalk back to its place near the chalkboard. As Professor Flitwick turns away to help Crabbe and Goyle, Harry tries it again. This time, he doesn’t so much as breathe a syllable of an incantation.

The chalk comes bobbing over to Harry’s desk obediently. It doesn’t move as quickly as before but still reaches a nice brisk clip.

Harry dips his head in a nod and deliberately sheathes his wand with a soft shkk. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Greengrass glancing over, but he willfully ignores her.

Harry begins the wand movement but stops halfway through. It’s subtle, something he can only notice because he’s done this a thousand times without a wand, but he can still feel the faint heat of the wand through the sheath like the distant kiss of sunlight.

Grimacing, Harry unstraps the sheath from his arm and snaps his wand holster shut. Then, with one fingernail, he scratches a containment rune into the leather. Nothing so deep that it won’t fade; it only needs to last for the rest of class. The rune itself is a simple one, the basic building block of most ward schemes. It’s not, he figures, a big deal.

It’s funny, then, that Greengrass’s eyes are so wide.

Harry swallows uncomfortably and motions with his hand. He can feel his magic pulling taut, can feel something in his chest like a flintstone catching as it scrapes and stutters and sparks. The piece of chalk wobbles, swaying in his direction ever so slowly.

Harry can feel his energy being sapped from him as he pulls, stretching until it feels like it just might snap. Halfway across the room, his hold on the piece of chalk abruptly falters, and it shatters as it hits the floor.

Harry sighs a little shakily. Fatigue is already settling over him like a weighted blanket, tugging on his eyelids and reminding him of how he didn’t get any sleep last night. For a brief moment, Harry wants to lay his head down on the cool desk, to block out all of this and drift off into the sweet soft darkness of sleep.

But Harry cannot rest. He thinks he will only be able to rest when he joins Cedric in the rich, loamy earth. So he straightens, rolls his shoulders back, shrugs off the honey-sticky gazes of Greengrass and Zabini, and reaches out with his magic again.

At the end of class, Professor Flitwick assigns them a somewhat absurd amount of homework and dismisses them from class with a reminder to practice Summoning more in their free time.

The students begin obediently trickling out of the classroom in loose clumps. Harry rises from his desk slowly; there’s a heaviness in his bones, an ashy taste at the back of his throat, a lingering sense of soul-deep soreness that he knows from experience is the result of overextending his magic.

Greengrass is packing suspiciously slowly, and Zabini isn’t even pretending not to be waiting for him. Harry crooks his wrist so a mere twitch will draw his wand, and his eyes flick over his surroundings, mentally cataloging potential weapons. If it’s a fight they want, they’ll get one.

Neither of the Slytherins makes a move, though. Neither do either of them say a word. They just fall into step with Harry, walking by his side like it’s as natural and normal as breathing, like they’ve been doing this their whole life.

By the time Harry enters the Potions classroom, everyone except him and his two new shadows have already sat down. He glances over to Snape expectantly, waiting for him to take points or give him detention, but Snape doesn’t even acknowledge his presence.

Harry’s lips twist wryly. He slips into the seat next to Neville, figuring he should share his newfound invisibility with the unfortunate soul who generally bears the brunt of Snape’s petty hatred.

He can hear Greengrass and Zabini settling into the seats behind him. His muscles tense, and he can’t help the way he fingers his wand; he already can tell that having potential assailants sitting just behind him will be niggling at the back of his mind for the rest of class like a persistent itch in his brain.

Neville glances over his shoulder, then at Harry. “Are they— are they bothering you?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” Harry replies and deliberately shakes the tension out of his shoulders. “D’you want me to grab your ingredients for you?”

Later, as they labor over their hot potions, Neville says, “I just wanted to let you know— both me and my gran believe you, about— about You-Know-Who.” He hesitates, wetting his lips, and adds, “And…” He glances up and looks Harry right in the eyes. “I know a lot of other people are saying that the Hat just Sorted you into Slytherin because of all that stuff in the song about House Unity, but I remember how adamant it is about placing students where they belong. I think you ended up in Slytherin because the Hat decided you belong there, not for any other reason. But— you’re a good person, Harry, one of the best I know. And you’re still the same person as you’ve always been.”

Harry swallows around the lump that’s mysteriously appeared in his throat. “Thank you, Neville.”

“Excuse me,” comes Zabini’s lilting, full-toned voice. The sound of it reminds Harry of dark chocolate, molten and sweet with a hidden, underlying note of bitter earth. Harry turns, his wand warming against his arm like the coals of a slow-waking fire stirring from their sleep. “What?” he asks coolly.

“You’ve forgotten to add the hellebore,” is all that Zabini says.

Harry lets out his breath slowly and, equally slowly, removes his hand from his wand. “Thank you.”

Maybe it’s all the time Harry spent reviewing potions at the Dursleys, or maybe it’s Zabini’s reminder about the hellebore, but either way, Harry manages to produce a brew that almost matches the outcome that Snape had described. After so many years of having his attempted potions vanished, it’s almost surreal to fill up a flagon and head up to the front of the class with the rest of the students.

Harry falls in beside Hermione, whose potion is, as always, impeccable.

“Everything going alright?” Hermione asks worriedly.

“I haven’t been murdered in the four hours or so since we last talked, if that’s what you’re asking,” Harry tells her dryly.

“You can never be sure, with Slytherins,” Ron says darkly. His own sample looks oddly gritty, and even capped, Harry can smell the strange, almost sour stench that’s emanating from it. “Mate, you won’t believe what Seamus has been saying. Apparently, him and his mum have been buying all of that rubbish the Prophet is spewing whole-heartedly, and he’s convinced the Hat put you in Slytherin because you’re lying for your own gain.”

Harry laughs. “Careful, you’re going to make me nostalgic for second year,” he says.

“Don’t jinx it,” Hermione sniffs. “I don’t fancy missing another month and a half of school on account of being petrified.”

“You know,” Harry muses with a sly grin, “I just realized that I completely forgot to destroy that one egg I saw in the corner of the Chamber—”

“Don’t joke about that!” Hermione hisses, but Ron is grinning.

They reach Snape’s desk at last and hand all of their samples over. Snape’s eyes slide over Harry like he’s a particularly uninteresting bit of wall, and as they turn to head back to their seats, Hermione exclaims, “he’s ignoring you!”

“Yup,” Harry agrees cheerfully. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” If he’d known Snape would ignore him as soon as he ended up in Slytherin, he would never have bothered to argue with the Sorting Hat back in first year.

“No, it’s— it’s— you need to be able to learn properly this year more than ever, and he’s making that even more difficult for you,” Hermione fumes.

“He really isn’t. I’ll be able to do that a hell of a lot easier on my own than I would with Snape hanging over my shoulder,” Harry points out dryly. “I’ve found an imminent threat to my person tends to distract me from my work. Could just be me, though.”

Ron nods fervently. “Try to get him to ignore me too, mate,” he says.

They’ve reached the area where Hermione and Ron were working. Ron gives Harry a bracing clap on his shoulder and Hermione, who’s still shaking her head in disbelief, says, “I’ll see you later, Harry.”

As everyone cleans up their stations, Snape assigns them an essay on the uses of moonstones. Harry can’t help but idly wonder if Snape would ignore Harry not turning his essay in just like he’s ignored Harry all through the class period, but it’s probably not worth risking losing his newfound Snape immunity. Besides, the essay probably won’t be too much of a waste of time; potions are right useful, and Harry has no guarantee he’ll always be able to just walk into a shop and buy one without any danger.

As Harry slings his bag over one shoulder, Neville catches his wrist in his hands. Even though Harry knows Neville would never hurt him, the touch is unexpected enough that Harry can’t restrain his little flinch. It’s only luck that Neville doesn’t notice.

“If you ever want to talk about what happened… or if there’s anything I can do to help...” Neville’s eyes are far too sympathetic, far too knowing. Harry nods and slips his hand from Neville’s grasp, already resolving not to involve Neville in any of his problems. Neville already has more than enough on his plate as it is.

“And Harry?” Neville’s eyes flick over to where Greengrass and Zabini are packing up their things at a comically slow pace. “They don’t have to be outright hexing you for it to qualify as ‘bothering’. I know from experience how much it sucks to have your schoolwork disrupted by someone else’s looming.” He gives Harry a jerky sort of nod and hurries out the door.

Harry pauses, thinking. He had been distracted all throughout class by their presence, had been made tense and wary by knowing they were right behind him, knowing they could strike him before Harry would have time to defend himself.

“Harry, mate, are you coming?” Ron calls from the door. “No one will mind if you sit with us at the Gryffindor table, everyone knows the Hat’s gone round the bend!”

“I’ll go to lunch in a bit,” Harry calls back. Ron nods and joins the stream of departing students along with Hermione.

Harry stares at his desk for a moment longer, lost in thought, and then he slings his bag over his shoulder.

Just like before, Greengrass and Zabini fall in beside him. When Harry ducks into a dust-muffled room just off the main corridor, they follow a half-step behind.

“All right,” Harry says, leaning against the wall and letting his wand hang loose and ready in his callused grip, “Why are you two following me around?”

Greengrass wets her lips, and Harry can tell from the set of her face that she’s about to deflect, about to twist things and pretend like she doesn’t know what Harry’s asking. Zabini lays a quelling hand on her wrist and she falls silent.

“Tell me, Potter,” Zabini says. “What happened that first night after we returned to Hogwarts?”

Harry cants his head and stares back coolly. Is this about his re-sorting? Does Zabini, like Malfoy, think that he’s unworthy of his new house?

A long, silent moment passes. Harry lets the silence stretch, let it fill the space like the soft darkness of a shadow on a hot summer’s day. In the same way, he will let Zabini fill it with his foolishness, with petty fist-waving against something neither of them has any control over. Harry will simply sit and wait and then return to the things which really ought to be done.

The moment has drawn out to the point of almost uncomfortable intensity before Zabini finally continues, his dark eyes never leaving Harry’s.

“Draco thinks that you became so upset listening to us that you injured your hand and performed a bit of accidental magic.” He smiles wryly. “An interesting theory, isn’t it? That a wave of magic so intense even a muggle would be hard-pressed to miss it was simply… accidental.” He shrugs, making even that motion far more graceful than it has any right to be. “He’s entitled to his theory, of course. I just have a different one.”

The silence hangs just long enough that Zabini can tell Harry won’t be responding before he speaks up once again. “How long have you been practicing wandless magic?” He asks in a smooth, light voice. It’s like he’s a primary school teacher trying to nudge Harry along to the right answer, trying to coax him to realize something utterly intuitive and obvious.

Harry, for his part, has no idea what this nonsequitur has to do with anything.

Harry can see Zabini’s mouth twisting with what might be a hint of frustration, and it’s almost as funny as his handsome face all mussed up by confusion had been that morning. Harry can’t help the way his mouth twitches, the way he has to clench the muscles in his face to keep himself from outright laughing. Harry can feel himself relaxing, just a bit. What kind of attempt at intimidation is this? What a joke.

“What kind of protections did you put on your bed?” Zabini tries again. Harry supposes the way that he’s speaking now is blunt by Slytherin standards.

“It would defeat their purpose if I just told you how they worked, wouldn’t it?” Harry doesn’t bother to suppress his grin, easy and fleeting as morning sunlight racing along the upper reaches of Hogwarts’ walls.

The truth is, even if Harry did tell them how he did it, he isn’t sure if they would be able to unravel it. He’s nowhere near skilled enough with runes to create his own warding sequence from scratch, so he’d just made a few tweaks to one that he’d seen in Regulus’s notebook. One of the tweaks he’d made had been replacing one of the more generic runes for protection with a Parseltongue sigil he’d seen guarding the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Harry imagines that to Zabini, it would be completely unintelligible.

Besides, Harry had been anxious enough about his inexperience that he’d funneled a somewhat absurd amount of magic and will into the runes, in the hopes that would smooth over any snags or mistakes.

Across from Harry, Zabini smiles back, slow and delighted. If Harry’s grin had been sunlight dashing and refracting along stone walls, Zabini’s grin is the slow pour of chocolate, the feel of a hand running along dark velvet, the satisfaction in the lines of a cat’s body as it stretches after sating itself on both mouse and victory. For some reason, Zabini seems to think that he’s gained something here.

Beside him, Greengrass is leaning forward ever so slightly; where before her gaze had been cursory and a bit dismissive, now there’s a light there, a keenness. She looks like she’s just picked up a bit of copper gleaming on the floor and discovered that it was gold after all.

Zabini’s smile melts away after only a moment, and Harry hates himself for half-missing it. “It’s always a good feeling having one of my little theories confirmed,” Zabini murmurs, almost to himself, and then says louder, “I have to wonder— how did you get into the Common Room?”

“The same way everyone else did, I imagine,” Harry replies dryly.

“Well, see,” Zabini says with that same smooth, delighted smile, “Everyone else has the password. But no one told you the password for the Slytherin common room that night. I’ll ask you again— how did you get into the Slytherin Common Room?”

Harry sighs, eyes flickering over to a spot just over Greengrass’s head. “All I had to do was ask.”

He glances down just slightly and sees Greengrass staring at him in confused disbelief. “In Parseltongue,” he clarifies.

Zabini looks like Christmas has come early. Harry turns to address him.

“So you, what, like to have your theories proven right? You’re… curious… about me?” Harry’s mouth has to shape the word ‘curious’ carefully since it’s such an odd thought to him. ‘Curious’ implies a desire to actually understand the reality that lies behind all the narratives spun about him. Harry is used to people picking and choosing what they will and will not believe about him, not seeking out the truth of who he is.

Zabini’s eyes dance. “You do have a rather unique life, Harry Potter,” he says.

“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Harry mutters. Zabini only smiles back.

After another moment, Harry sighs. “Fine. But in return, I expect one or the other of you to partner with me in classes where it’s just Slytherins— and,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “don’t sit behind me.” His shoulder blades prickle, remembering the sensation of potential threats sitting behind him.

“Of course,” Zabini murmurs.

Still half-wondering what the hell is going on, Harry nods shortly to the both of them and steps out. Once he’s a reasonable distance away, he swings his invisibility cloak back over his shoulders and silences his footsteps.

“...told you so,” Zabini is saying.

“Don’t be uncouth,” Greengrass replies, but she sounds rueful.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Greengrass says, in a voice of vague awe, “...blood warding.”

“Blood warding,” Zabini confirms. “And wandless magic. I wonder what else he may be studying?” Harry can hear the smile in his voice.

“This is the first time since the end of the Tournament that I thought maybe…” Greengrass sounds choked up, like she’s avoiding crying by will alone. “That maybe…”

“I know.” Zabini’s voice softens. “I feel the same way.”

“You could leave,” Greengrass says, a bit sharply.

“Could I have?” Zabini’s voice is dry.

Greengrass sighs. “I suppose not, considering—”

Harry steps away, uncomfortable continuing to listen when the conversation seems to be turning to more private affairs. He has plenty to think about as it is.

Harry isn’t hungry, not really. Between the rich dinner he ate the previous night, and the breakfast he had that morning, he’s twice as full as he was most days at the Dursleys. Besides, he doesn’t feel like explaining his conversation with the Slytherins to Ron and Hermione, not when he isn’t entirely sure that he understands what happened himself.

Still, he hesitates uncertainly. He’d told Ron and Hermione that he’d go to lunch as soon as he was done talking with the Slytherins; he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t show up, they’ll assume he’s lying bound and beaten in some dank corner of the dungeons.

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitches upwards as a solution occurs to him. “...Dobby?” he calls out in a low voice, pulling off his invisibility cloak as he does so.

There’s a popping noise, and a familiar house elf appears. Dobby looks much the same as always, although his motley assortment of clothes seems to have gained several pieces since Harry last saw him.

“Harry Potter, sir!” He exclaims in delight. “Dobby is glad to see Harry Potter, glad indeed. Dobby has heard rumors that the Sorting Hat has changed its mind and now Harry Potter must be rooming with…” he leans forward and whispers in a tone of deep horror, “...Draco Malfoy.” He peers up at Harry with an almost imploring look, like he’s begging Harry to say it’s just a mixed-up rumor. “Is this being true?”

Harry huffs out a dry laugh. “It’s true that I’m rooming with Malfoy now, but you don’t need to be worried. I’ve put up wards around my bed, wards that require knowledge only I have to unravel. I’m going to be fine.”

Dobby nods seriously. “That is good news, good news indeed, Harry Potter. Now, what is Harry Potter calling Dobby for?”

“Er… I was just thinking of how the House Elves transport food from the kitchens to the tables. Is it possible you could do that, but with a note? That you could transport a short note to right next Hermione’s plate without it being very conspicuous?”

Dobby nods eagerly. “Yes, it would be easy as baking pie. Dobby would be glad to do it for Harry Potter, sir, for he has set Dobby free, and Dobby is much happier now that he is free.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Harry says. “Just give me a minute to write up the note.” He pulls out out a scrap of parchment and scrawls out Hermione— have not been murdered. Off to the owlery. —H.

Dobby takes the note and pops away at once. That done, Harry swings the invisibility cloak over his shoulders and heads off towards the owlery.

It’s late enough into lunch hour that the corridors are mostly empty, containing only a handful of stragglers who can be easily avoided. Once, when he brushes past one clump of fourth year girls, he hears them whispering about him— “Sorted into Slytherin” and “must have argued with the Hat, that’s why it took so long” and “if he was telling the truth about— about— what happened after the Tournament— he would be in Gryffindor, right? Because telling the truth requires bravery— people who lie are more ambitious than they are brave… so he must be lying because he’s ended up in Slytherin.”

Suppressing a snort at that clearly impeccable logic, Harry hurriedly skirts around the little group and makes a point to avoid passing too close to anyone else after that.

Outside the castle walls, soft, misty rain falls through the air like a gossamer veil. Harry pulls his cloak tighter around him and liberally applies several warming charms as he makes his way across the damp grounds.

The owlery is just as drafty and foul-smelling as always; Harry braces himself in one of the corners so he’ll have a modicum of protection from the wind and rain as he writes.

Snuffles—

Harry hesitates for a long moment. He’s only one word into his letter and he’s already uncertain, already second-guessing himself. This is part of the reason why he never wrote Sirius more; he never seems to know what to say or how to say it.

Snuffles—

I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but the Hat decided to put me in Slytherin this time around. No one is entirely sure what all is going on, but most everyone figures it’s some sort of House Unity tosh— the Hat’s song this year was all about appreciating each other and realizing we’re not all that different underneath, etc., etc. Completely ignoring the very real possibility that one of my new ‘housemates’ is going to try to murder me in my sleep, but that’s the Hat for you, I suppose.

Hope you’re well. Say hi to our friend the professor for me, and don’t hesitate to recommend some spells to help me survive this snakepit.

Stay safe.
H.

Harry hesitates over the letter, wanting to add something more— some sort of reminder that he really didn’t intend to end up here, that he’s the same Harry as always, some plea to please don’t reject him, but that would just seem even more cowardly, would just make him even more of a failure of a Gryffindor than he already is.

His hesitancy has left ink blots staining the page, but Harry doesn’t think he could stomach rewriting it. Figuring this is about as good as he’s going to get, Harry sets his letter for Sirius aside and moves onto writing to Kreacher.

Kreacher—

To the surprise of absolutely everyone except you, I ended up in Slytherin. Try not to be too smug about it.

I know it’s only been two days since I’ve left, but I miss—

Harry’s hand pauses as he abruptly recalls all of the secrecy surrounding Grimmauld Place. It would be truly stupid to just write out “Grimmauld Place,” wouldn’t it? What’s he going to do next, write down the Dursleys’ address? He snorts.

I know it’s only been two days since I’ve left, but I miss—

...the old house? Kreacher? The cramped, dusty corridors, his musty-smelling bed that was still so much more comfortable than anything the Dursleys ever gave him, the library with its thousand ancient books?

...home, Harry finally writes, his handwriting tiny and cramped with uncertainty.

I know it’s only been two days since I’ve left, but I miss home. And not just Hogwarts doesn’t have any of those cream brulay things you kept on serving me for dessert. The Slytherins— well, everyone, but especially the Slytherins— keep staring! Their weird attitude is going to cut into my research time, which is short enough as it is considering that I’m already expected to sit through a bunch of classes that are about as useful at helping me survive as a spoon is helpful when it comes to cutting down a tree.

Speaking of research, I was wondering if you knew of any protections I could add to my notebook to shield it from both wandering eyes and any attempts at destroying it? I might be wrong to ask you, but I figured for all the books in the library to hold up as well as they have, they must have some kind of protection on them.

Stay safe.
H.

Satisfied with his letters, Harry lets out a short whistle Wood taught him back in his first year. A moment later, Hedwig swoops down from one of the upper perches of the owlery. She affectionately nuzzles him hello; they haven’t seen each other in a while, since Harry had arranged for her to stay with one of his friends over the summer and she’d never seemed too keen on lingering around Grimmauld Place. Not that he can blame her; Grimmauld was far too cramped and dim for an owl like her to ever be comfortable there.

“Send this one to Padfoot, please,” he says, “and this one to Kreacher. Wait until no one’s around to see it before delivering the second letter; I don’t think Padfoot would be too happy about learning who I’m writing to.”

Hedwig takes the letters and, flapping her wings briskly, flies off.

Harry watches her go. Despite how cold it is out in the owlery, he finds himself oddly reluctant to head to the greenhouses. He doesn’t want to go to Herbology, doesn’t want to have to endure the Slytherins’ staring just so he can sit through a class he sincerely doubts will ever be of any real use to him.

It would be idiotic to test Snape’s commitment to studiously ignoring him this early, though. No, better to wait, to skip other less conspicuous classes first to test the waters.

Harry sighs, and then, with the air of someone plunging into frigid water, begins to make his way to the greenhouses.

There’s a wave of murmuring when Harry enters the greenhouse only a scant minute before the bell. Not from the Slytherins, no— they simply watch him with silent, unreadable eyes— but from the Ravenclaws. Because apparently, the Slytherins take Herbology classes with the Ravenclaws, which is something that Harry had never realized.

“...thought he wasn’t going to show up,” Harry thinks he hears one of the Ravenclaws say. When he turns his head, they all fall silently rather abruptly; he can hear one of the Slytherins chuckling derisively, although Harry isn’t sure at what.

There’s a slightly awkward pause of no more than perhaps a half-second, and then Anthony Goldstein scoots over to make room for Harry to practice on the same pot as him.

They’re repotting fanged geraniums that day which, aside from the fanged geranium’s frequent attempts to bite his fingers off, is much like repotting any of Aunt Petunia’s plants. Harry thinks he may even prefer this, as fanged geraniums can’t lock him away without food, only nip at him a bit.

Goldstein watches with a slightly odd expression as Harry carefully yet quickly untangles the root system from the hard-packed soil of the too-small pot and begins settling the fanged geranium into its new home.

And then, abruptly, he speaks. “How do you avoid its teeth like that?”

“Like what?” Harry asks absently as he slips a hand past one particularly sharp-toothed blossom’s ambitious lunge and pats the soil around the fanged geranium’s base down firmly.

“Like… like you already know exactly where it’s going to go before it gets there,” Goldstein finally answers.

Harry has to think a moment before answering. “If you watch how something moves long enough,” he says finally, “you get an idea of the trajectory of its movements. That’s how students can avoid each other in the corridors even when they’re barely looking where they’re going, and how Seekers can follow snitches so well.”

“So, what…” Goldstein’s brow furrows. “You’ve worked with fanged geraniums frequently enough that you know how they move?”

Harry laughs. “This is the first time I’ve seen a fanged geranium in my life.”

“Then how—?” Goldstein seems almost frustrated, now.

Harry shrugs. “It’s not like it has a particularly complicated pattern of movement. It wants to hurt me, and it’s going to lunge out to do so whenever I get within reach. The trick is to recognize where you were a second ago, consider the path it’s going to take to get to where you were, and then avoid both where you were before and the path to that place.”

He grabs a nearby watering can and starts giving the newly potted plant a bit of water to help it settle in. “As long as you can do that— and keep in mind where it is in relation to you— you can dodge anything too dumb to plot.”

Harry would know. It’s the same strategy he’s been using to dodge Dudley since he was about six years old (yes, Harry is saying that Dudley is as intelligent as a fanged geranium). If a six-year-old dumbass who didn’t even know how to read yet could figure it out, he has no idea why Goldstein is looking at him like someone’s just introduced a complicated new mathematical formula to him.

Harry brushes the dirt from his hands with a practiced, instinctual motion. “I’m done, Professor Sprout. Can I leave early?”

Professor Sprout glances up, her eyebrows raised. At the other tables in the greenhouse, students with bitten hands are futilely trying to dodge lunges and snapping teeth. Only a few groups have managed to get their hands near the roots long enough to start properly digging the fanged geraniums out, and no one else has settled the geraniums into their new pots.

“...you aren’t going to get into trouble?” she asks half-jokingly. “Not going to go run wild in the corridors while the professors are busy teaching?”

Harry snorts. “I don’t find trouble, Professor. Trouble finds me.”

Something in her face softens, and she nods. “Off you go, then.”

Harry heads out, whistling a little as he goes. He still has about two-thirds of the time allotted for Herbology left, and now he knows for sure he won’t be having to deal with Snape giving him detention for missing class quite yet. It seems like deciding not to skip Herbology was the right call.

He thinks he’ll spend the rest of this time napping back in the Slytherin dormitories. He knows they’re empty, and if he heads over under his Invisibility Cloak and puts a Notice-Me-Not on his bed, no one will even know he’s there. It’s the best chance he has of actually sleeping in that bed instead of just dozing warily.

As usual, a little Parseltongue is all it takes to open up the common room. After setting up a quick Notice-Me-Not charm to redirect attention away from his bed curtains, Harry falls forward onto his new mattress and drifts off without so much as removing his shoes or his invisibility cloak.

The space behind Harry’s eyelids is dark, dark enough that he has to squint to make out the walls of the maze. He distantly recognizes that instead of the twisting, thorny thicket which it should be made up of, the maze is constructed out of dense privet bush, leaves waxy and even in a way that is utterly anachronistic to everything else about the Tournament.

Harry doesn’t have time to wonder about it, because he can hear the acromantula clicking just beyond the next bend, and he needs to save Cedric. He round the corner, wand raised, and the acromantula lunges forward, biting into his leg—“trenchio!” he shouts— the acromantula falls, now segmented into three separate pieces.

The triplicate dividing curse is truly useful, Harry reflects as he leverages himself to his feet. Opponents will naturally assume that it comes in the form of a single cut and dodge accordingly— and whichever way they dodge, one of the two prongs of the curse’s attack will be there to greet them. It’s a delightfully clever sort of trap.

If only the Black library had some curse or hex or charm as well-suited to his next task. Harry must persuade Cedric not to take the cup with him, to stay back here, to live— and that is both far more complicated, and far more important, than killing a pesky spider.

The cup gleams in the grass before them, a golden death wrapped up in the illusion of glory and victory. Harry would set it alight if he thought it would help.

“You take it,” Cedric says, because he is fair enough to make Helga Hufflepuff cry tears of joy. “That’s the second time you’ve saved my life now; you deserve it more.”

What Harry wants to say is this: “neither of us should take it, because it’s a trap.” But instead, his traitorous lips betray him. He says, “We’re still square.” He says, “both of us.” He says, “Together.”

Cedric looks over at him, eyes noble and trusting and alive, and he nods. Harry feels a stone sinking down, down, down his throat and settling heavily in his belly, but he is no more than a passive observer as his hand moves, reaching out to clasp one golden handle.

They grab the cup in the same moment, and the world twists and melts into nothing more than swirling, dripping colors. They fall to their knees in damp grass that is far too green— why is it this green, this full deep green of life when Cedric is about to die— and Harry knows that this is the end.

He looks to Cedric, wanting to say something, although he does not know what, but his mouth is too dry, and Cedric is looking past him with a distant expression, eyes already half hazed over.

He falls to the soft damp dark earth and his eyes are open as they stare yet they are as unseeing as a statue’s blind white marble eyes and his mouth hangs slightly open like there is some unspoken message he will never get to share and—

An icy agony so cold it burns overtakes Harry. His head is being split by pain vivid and jagged as lightning, fracturing and shattering down the center in a way that makes him sympathize with the acromantula he trisected earlier, and he writhes on the ground hearing his own screams yet driven too mad by the pain to know if the high, animal wail of anguish is his own or the conjurations of his own breaking mind.

“The Boy-Who-Lived,” Voldemort muses, and yanks him up by the collar.

Voldemort slams him back against Cedric Diggory’s pale tombstone, and ropes wrap around him, ropes that turn to thick coils of writhing serpent that twist around his neck, and squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze—

Harry reaches out for the cup, even though he knows Voldemort would have to be not only mad but also stupid to have made the cup a two way portkey.

Still, he reaches out, some fierce hot core inside of him rebelling at the idea of letting Voldemort win, and the cup smacks into his waiting hand and he is recalling Mr. Weasley making the portkey for the Quidditch Cup and he is thinking Portus as loudly as he can and is envisioning Hogwarts and is pushing so much magic into it that it feels like his veins are running full with lava instead of blood—

And then something snaps and the world is twisting and dripping again, Voldemort melting away like a crayon left in the sun for too long, and Harry is shoving aside sweaty sheets and blinking away sleep-crust and sitting up.

...fuck, Harry thinks emphatically.

Harry sits there for a moment, breathing shakily and bracing his arms around his own knees, and then he thinks, even in my nightmares I’m reviewing spells from the Black library, and he laughs.

To help himself calm down, he thinks of some of the other spells that he learned. Most of the best ones were from an old, thick book that Kreacher seems to want him to be especially careful with— a thick tome bound in black leather so old that it is as soft as butter against his fingertips. It's all handwritten, and the contents all varied and sometimes utterly useless, but always interesting.

There are strange recipes that seem to combine normal ingredients with the sorts of instructions you would find in potions— the recipe for a “Shadow Cake”, for instance, commands that all the mixing must be done in a pitch-black bowl out of direct sunlight. Other recipes call for ingredients like a single drop of blood, or nightshade picked under a waning crescent moon.

There are also instructions for strange almost-spells that seem looser than the sort Harry knows. On these pages, there are charts of the night sky detailing when to do what, and strange sketches of things like two hands clasped with ribbon or a pyre burning high with smoke forming into strange shapes or circles of salt or blood or mercury with places where runes are to be drawn and objects placed and people stationed.

It’s all fascinating, and more than a bit dizzying, and also of very, very little relevance to Harry’s more-likely-than-not incredibly short life, so he focuses on the spells instead. And what spells there are! Some of the spells perform functions almost exactly the same as other spells he already learned; ardre, for example, seems to do much the same thing as incendio, and atainare seems like a less effective version of impedimenta.

(There’s also endoloris, which sounds similar enough to the Cruciatus that Harry’s pretty sure the Blacks kept that in their book just so they had a loophole for if they ever wanted to inflict the pain of an Unforgivable without the suffering from consequences of using one.)

Other spells are more inventive, however— there’s brisiere, which bursts the bones of an opponent, and desculpe, which detaches an indicated limb. However, Harry’s favorite parts of the Black magic by far are the complicated, fiddly inventions— like a little tidbit of magic the writer calls “the cascading spell modifier” that, if added to the beginning of any incantation, will cause the spell to spread out between multiple opponents.

Rather like a river splitting and flowing, Harry thinks. He wonders if the creator of the spell thought that, too; if they sat in the library imagining river deltas splitting off into distributaries carrying water to the ocean. He imagines a river of magic itself, glowing and golden with a sunlit heat like that of his own wand’s warmth as it sits in his hand. A river with barges on it that carry men and women in robes of fine, light cotton. They eat cakes made out of shadow and speak in lilting French and they are always tying and untying silk ribbons around the wrists of themselves and their loved ones.

Cedric is riding on the barge too.

His hair is gleaming golden in the summer sun, and it looks like a halo framing his head. He sits with his elbow resting on the cup and the thick old book from Grimmauld Place in his hands— except it’s the goldenrod yellow of Hufflepuff instead of the soft shadowy color it was back in the library. That’s no surprise to Harry; all dark things flee from Cedric’s light.

His wrists are bare, and so are Harry’s. Harry has no family worth a silk ribbon, and the dead have no bindings.

It is undeniable that he is just as beautiful as every other part of his surroundings. He is as beautiful as the sun skipping off the softly glowing water of the river, as beautiful as the soft, curving French the other riders speak, as beautiful as the colorful silk ribbons that Harry will never, ever wear. Still, the sight of him brings great pain to Harry— icy agony so cold it burns hot, spasming pain that splits his head, and worst of all, a hungry void in his chest that sucks everything else into an all-encompassing sense of loss.

The pain is so great that it makes the sunlight seem vulgarly bright, makes the other barge-goers seem indecorous in their cheerfulness, makes the jewel tones of the silk ribbons seem indecent. The void in Harry’s chest tugs and howls out the agony of hollowness and reaches out to capture the world around them, eager to leach the color and beauty from this obscene show of thriving life.

Harry wakes up with a knot of nausea sitting thick in his throat, and a heaviness to his eyes that suggests he would be crying if only he hadn’t had that beaten out of him years ago. Most notable of all, a void— a hollowness— a hunger beats in Harry’s chest like a second heart. Maybe Harry should have set an alarm so he could wake up in time for dinner after all.

A quick glance at the clock shows that it’s nearing midnight. He’s slept longer than he would have expected, and his sleep itself was easier and less interrupted than he had anticipated. Clearly, the burden of missing the previous night’s sleep, the excessive amounts of magic he’d used on his wards, and the stress of his first day in Slytherin have combined to exhaust him so thoroughly that even nightmares couldn’t keep him awake for long.

Harry stretches, lifting his arms and leaning backward until his back cracks satisfyingly. It’s lucky he woke up when he did; it’s nearly time for Astronomy and, although he fails to see how the locations of constellations have any bearing on his life, he did decide not to test Snape quite this early in the school year.

And besides, he feels… nearly good. Energized, refreshed, awake. Good enough that sitting through Astronomy probably won’t even be much of a trial.

Decision made, Harry pulls his Invisibility Cloak off and tucks it away in a pocket before making sure his wand is holstered on his arm. Then he pulls his curtains open.

Across the room, Malfoy flinches, eyes widening like he’s shocked. Harry can’t help his amused snort at the sight.

“Did I startle you?” he mocks, blithely ignoring that he was a) hidden behind a Notice-Me-Not charm and b) wearing his Invisibility Cloak.

“How do you keep on doing that?” Malfoy snaps, and then flushes like he’s surprised and embarrassed by his own outburst.

Harry taps his cheek in mock thoughtfulness before telling Malfoy, “it would defeat the purpose if I explained that to you, wouldn’t it?”

Malfoy flushes even more deeply, two bright spots appearing on his high cheekbones. Harry feels the morbid impulse to keep on poking and prodding until Malfoy gets so angry that those two little bright spots erupt into the full-face purple of Uncle-Vernon-esque rage.

Maybe Harry isn’t doing as well as he thought.

Harry spins on his heel, his exposed back just inviting a curse. Malfoy doesn’t send him so much as a stinging hex, however, and Harry leaves the dorm room unaccosted. Oddly enough, he almost feels disappointed by this.

Zabini rises as Harry enters the room. “Ready for Astronomy?” he asks. Harry jerks a nod in response. The Slytherins seem to be staring at Zabini almost as much as they usually stare at Harry; probably wondering why the hell someone as intelligent as Zabini is associating with a dead man walking, Harry figures.

Honestly, Harry wonders the same thing.

Greengrass falls in on Harry’s other side as they exit the common room. As they walk to Astronomy, Greengrass keeps on glancing at Harry, sometimes even momentarily opening her mouth like she’s got something she wants to ask Harry. Harry placidly ignores her, and, to his satisfaction, Greengrass remains quiet for the rest of the walk.

They’re some of the first to arrive at the Astronomy tower. Greengrass and Zabini set up their telescopes right beside Harry’s, carefully adjusting knobs and checking the state of their lenses. Harry doesn’t bother; instead, he idly tracks down the Dog Star. It's easier to find than usual; there must be less cloud cover tonight.

Compared to baiting Malfoy, Astronomy is boring. All they’re doing is review, like Sinistra thinks they’ve forgotten how telescopes work over the summer. As she lectures on the importance of avoiding rust on their telescopes, Harry checks on Mars. He can’t tell if it’s any brighter than usual.

Mars is bright tonight, Ronan had said, back in the Forbidden Forest during first year. Had he seen the oncoming war written out in the stars that night?

The sound of Malfoy snorting draws Harry out of his thoughts. Malfoy’s paused a foot or so away from Harry, and he’s looking at the spot where Harry’s shaking hand is resting against the telescope tube. “What,” he mocks, “are all the little stars and planets making you anxious?”

Harry just stares back at him expressionlessly.

Malfoy tries again, this making his hands vibrate in a clear imitation of the way Harry’s own hands shake. “Does the sky make poor Harry Potter’s hands’ shake?” He asks in a saccharine-sweet voice.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Cruciatus after-effects, actually,” Harry replies mildly.

All of the Slytherins around him seem to freeze. The color drains from Malfoy’s face, and his hands fall limply to his sides like he’s too shocked to keep them aloft. Parkinson’s mouth has fallen open, and the skinny boy who Harry figures must be Theodore Nott is pressing a trembling hand to his mouth like he’s trying not to throw up. Meanwhile, one of Zabini’s hands has closed around Harry’s elbow in a warm, tight grip.

Harry turns back to his telescope and begins prying Zabini’s fingers off his arm. “Don’t touch me without warning,” he says as he peels one long finger off of him. “You’re lucky I didn’t hex you.”

Zabini abruptly releases his hand from Harry’s arm. Face still slack with shock, he says, “I… my apologies.”

Harry nods shallowly in acknowledgment, then starts looking for Uranus in the night sky. If he’d known saying what he did would make all the Slytherins act so strangely, he’d have just kept his mouth shut.

Harry doesn’t bother making even the most cursory attempt at sleep. Instead, he sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed and pulls out Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies.

He starts by transferring all of the notes from the post-its to his notebook, elaborating on some of his thoughts as he goes. Once he’s done with that, he continues reading the book itself, scrawling down relevant bits and pieces as he goes.

Without any pesky interruptions to distract him, it’s easy to get caught up in the work, in the flow of learning spells and formulating theories and coming up with potential strategies. By the time Harry finishes the book at long last, it’s nearing four in the morning, and he’s filled another dozen or so pages in his notebook.

The dorm is quiet and still around him, so Harry figures it’s probably safe to sneak back down to the common room as long as he’s subtle. He makes sure his wand is snug in its holster, but he doesn’t bother to put his shoes back on; padding around in socks will be quieter, anyhow.

The common room is dark, dark enough that Harry doesn’t realize there’s anyone else there until a trembling young voice demands, “who’s there?”

Harry summons a soft light to the palm of his hand with a quiet incantation. “Just me.”

In the new light, Harry can see his unexpected cohabitant falling back against the couch in relief. She’s a skinny little thing with long, dark hair pulled back in plaits and a loose, flouncy lace nightgown. Harry’s pretty sure she’s the first year who introduced herself as Lena Nightbloom at dinner the day before yesterday.

“Homesick?” Harry asks sympathetically.

Nightbloom flushes and stares into her lap, where she’s twisting her hands together anxiously. “Yes,” she confesses quietly.

“It happens to the best of us,” Harry tells her. “I used to get awfully homesick at the start of every summer. Couldn’t sleep properly, because it was too different from what I was used to.”

Nightbloom looks up, her eyes wide like she can’t believe a fifth year like Harry ever got homesick. “Really?” she asks. “I mean— I keep on trying to sleep, but I just— I just can’t.”

“That’s your problem, then,” Harry says drily. He pads over to where Nightbloom is sitting, moving slowly enough that she has enough time to frown or shuffle back or tell him to leave her alone. She doesn’t though, just watches with her mouth slightly open as Harry sits down on the other end of the couch. “You’ll find that trying to sleep is the best way to stay awake.”

“What should I do, then?” she asks.

“I find that a distraction works wonders,” Harry tells her. “How would you like to hear a story?” The words are out before Harry even registers them, and he’s only just begun to wonder why the hell he said that when Nightbloom nods eagerly.

“Yes, please!”

It’s hard to say no to that, especially when he was the one who offered. “Alright then,” Harry says, setting his book down and tucking his feet beneath him so that he’s more comfortable. “Give me a minute to think of a good one.”

It takes him a minute or two of casting about to come up with a story that's appropriate for someone her age. In the end, he figures that adventures from his own first year are good enough. It’s probably best to tell them in the third person, though, just so she doesn’t get any ideas.

“Once upon a time,” he says, “there was a young boy— just about your age, actually— who was friends with a man who loved even the most dangerous of creatures, because he was so sturdy that nothing could hurt him. The young boy respected the man very much because he was one of the first people who had ever treated him like he was worth something. In fact, the young boy respected him so much that he and his friends only laughed a little bit when he found out the man had a three-headed dog which he called Fluffy.”

Nightbloom giggles. “Fluffy?”

“Fluffy,” Harry repeats back in an exaggerated tone. “And Fluffy wasn’t the most fearsome beast the man tamed either. One moonlit night, the man made a bet with a stranger about who would win at a game of cards. The man won the bet, and instead of asking for gold, he asked the stranger if he could have a dragon’s egg, for he had always wanted to raise a dragon of his own.”

Nightbloom stares back at him in something like awe. “And did he get one?”

Harry smiles. “He certainly got something. It was hard and dark like stone, and there were bumps on it a bit like scales, but the only way to tell if it was really a dragon egg or not was to be patient and see what happened. And so the man waited, keeping the egg hidden in the fire where he boiled his tea and cooked his meals.”

Nightbloom giggles again and mumbles, “Did his food taste like sulfur?”

Harry pauses. “I can’t say I— I mean, the little boy— ever asked him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.”

He shakes himself a little and continues. “One day, the egg began to creak and rock back and forth, and the man knew that it was hatching. He sent a note to the boy and his friends, and they hurried over as soon as they could. By the time they arrived, the egg was already shot through with cracks, and they could hear the baby dragon, scrabbling and scratching and trying to climb out. When it finally did get out, it didn’t look like much— small and crumpled and wet. Still, it had scales as dark as coal and eyes the color of poppies.”

Harry smiles a little, remembering how happy Hagrid had been. He’s about to continue his story when a small sound catches his attention. At first, he thinks Nightbloom’s said something, but when he glances over there’s nothing but the steady rise and fall of her chest, making her nightgown flutter. The sound comes again, and Harry realizes it’s a quiet snore. She’s fallen asleep.

Harry rises quietly from his seat. A wave of his wand summons his notebook, some post-its, and the fountain pen Hermione got him for his birthday, along with one of the Slytherin green blankets from his bed. He spreads the blanket over Nightbloom and then flips around in his notebook until he finds the rune scheme Regulus created for when he was studying in the library alone. It’s mostly tuned towards keeping distractions out, with a few protections woven in as well; Harry thinks that it will suit his purpose perfectly.

He writes the rune scheme out on a post-it with his fountain pen and tucks it into one of the folds of Nightbloom’s blanket. Then he turns back to the shelves and starts looking for a new book to replace Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies.

Imperceptible Poisons and How to Brew Them by Acrisius Iocanthe, A Dark Wizard’s Guide to Legal Loopholes by Melton Elder, Alchemy for the Criminally Incompetent by Reynold Poisonwood and then, just beyond those— Stopgate Healing Craft Learned on the Battlefields of the Continent by Henry Charlus.

Harry pulls the book down. He’d read a few books on healing magic back at the Black library, but they’d almost always ended up suggesting the prescription of some specific potion or other. It’s hardly as though Harry can brew a potion in the middle of battle. This book is just the sort of thing Harry needs.

He slips the book jacket for Quidditch Through the Ages off of Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies and onto his new acquisition, and settles down to read.

Harry isn't entirely useless when it comes to medical knowledge. He picked up a bit here and there just living at the Dursleys and treating his own wounds, and his summer reading at the library in Little Whinging had helped him with concepts like triage and tourniquets. He’d also learned a rather useful diagnostic charm from one of the otherwise relatively useless books on healing he’d read.

Still, compared to what he’s learned so far, Stopgate Healing Craft Learned on the Battlefields of the Continent is a revelation. There are stasis charms for use on the human body, and a numbing charm to help with pain, and a spell that forms blood clots to prevent patients from bleeding out. And that’s not even starting on the clever repurposing of other spells— bloodletting curses to expel poisons from the body, a charring curse to cauterize wounds, and a modified Incarcerous to quickly conjure and wrap bandages around chest wounds.

It’s all engrossing enough that Harry can stop paying such close attention to what’s going on around him. Nightbloom shifts a little in her sleep and Harry doesn’t even flinch. At some point in the night, somewhere between her confessing to being homesick and him telling her about Norberta hatching, Harry found himself believing, almost against his will, that Nightbloom is safe. Not that he was ever really scared of her— she’s a first year, there’s no way she could deal any real damage to him. The difference is that before Harry thought she couldn’t hurt him, and now he thinks she won’t try to hurt him.

Thus reassured, he lets the peace of the night sink into his bones, lets himself focus in on his work until the only thing on his mind is the next spell, the next strategy, the next little tidbit of knowledge that might save him in a pinch. By the time he considers heading out to the pitch, there are a dozen new spells squirreled away in his notebook.

It’s then that a new voice breaks the silence.

“What’s all this then?” It takes Harry a moment to make the connection. The voice is familiar— he’s heard it on the Quidditch pitch a few times. Pucey, the one Slytherin who’d been sneaky enough that Madam Hooch had never caught him committing a foul. He doesn’t sound as hostile as Harry would have expected.

It takes Harry a moment to remember what question was even asked, but he figures Pucey will just chalk it up to the hour.

“Nothing,” Harry says in one of the voices he’s perfected. It’s the one that’s just brusque enough that it doesn’t sound like he’s hiding anything, but not quite brusque enough that Dudley will go to the trouble of hitting some manners into him. “Catching up on some reading.”

“What’re you doing with Lena?” Pucey asks. Oddly enough, there’s only a mild undertone of suspicion in his voice. His brow furrows as his gaze skims over the blanket covering Nightbloom, and his arms fall from their position crossed at his chest. He looks faintly confused, now.

“Ask her yourself.” Harry shoves his books under his arm and smiles one of those light, fleeting smiles that have been coming to him so easily recently— those smiles that aren’t fueled by happiness, exactly. “Good night— or more like good morning, I guess.”

“Morning,” Pucey replies absently. His eyes are still darting between Nightbloom and Harry like he’s solving a puzzle. “Thanks for staying up with her.”

Harry’s only reply is a quick, shallow nod. He doesn’t particularly want to know what sort of motive Pucey has for acting all friendly and non-confrontational. It was weird enough with Zabini and Greengrass. Honest to God, if one more Slytherin dares to suggest that they’re motivated by curiosity, Harry’s going to declare the whole lot off-brand Ravenclaws and demand the Hat resort them just like it did him.

Harry pads up to his dorm on light feet. Tension from the odd encounter with Pucey still lingers in the taut lines of his shoulders, the tight coils of his muscles, the stirring of the hungry beast sleeping in his chest. He needs to go flying, needs to burn this unease away with the clean fire of pure adrenaline.

The dorm is quiet around him, aside from the sound of Malfoy snoring. Still, the muted click of his broom case is just loud enough to make his heart stutter in his chest. He lets out a slow breath, reminds himself of the protections layered thick on his bed, and forces his muscles into looseness.

That looseness only becomes genuine once he’s out in the empty corridors, where the air hangs thick with morning quiet and the sunlight is pale as white wine. Out on the grounds, frost crusts the grass; the light sets it to glittering even as it crunches under his feet like so many shards of glass. Harry has felt for a long time now the other students are missing Hogwarts at its most beautiful by sleeping so late, but at the same time, well. He’s not particularly inclined to spoil this for himself for their benefit.

Practicing spells is something, at least, but straight-up casting is easy. It’s doing everything else at the same time that makes a real fight so dangerous. Maybe if he could enchant the paper targets to shoot projectiles or beams of light… it’s a project for later, for the long stretches of the night that he spends studying. For now, he’ll practice as best he can with what he has.

Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t been able to find any wizard books on aerial combat. But Wood had always been brutal when it came to bludger-dodging drills— Harry wouldn’t be surprised if the principles are applicable.

After a few minutes of basic maneuverability exercises, Harry has to admit to himself that maybe he just wants to fly for the sheer joy of it. The sun is getting higher but not much warmer, and the air is so fresh and cool it feels like drinking straight from a high mountain spring; it’s the type of day when flying is such a joy that no one on the team would complain about practice going long, even when Wood assigned them the most repetitive of drills.

Trying not to think about how he should be spending this time, Harry practices some more acrobatic dodges. A Swansea Swoop might not be much use in a real fight, but there’s something irresistible about flying so fast that it feels like he’s running into the very moisture in the air.

The grey of the sky seems to melt into the sparkling pale of the grass as he pulls a more elaborate turn and then spins like he’s twisting out of the curved path of a bludger. It’s true that Quidditch is less important to him than it had once been, and that he certainly doesn’t have the time for it— but he misses the chaos and adrenaline of a well-played game anyway.

With a sigh, Harry slows his broom. Hermione will worry if he keeps on missing meals. Still, Harry eyes the ground. There’s enough time for one last Wronski Feint, and if he rolls off at the last second, he’ll be able to get the drop on an imaginary opponent— literally.

Nothing, nothing compares to the screeching adrenaline of racing along at top speed— and then pointing the tip of his broom down. He dives at almost a ninety-degree angle— his glasses dig into the bridge of his nose— windburn chaps his cheeks— his shoelaces whip at his ankles— it’s time to pull up, he needs to pull up!

The landing isn’t pretty, but when Harry holds still nothing hurts too badly. He caught the ground at a roll, wound up on his side maybe a couple of meters from his broom. There’s a scrape on his forearm where his robe pulled up, but he thinks that’s the worst of it.

There are also footsteps coming up behind him.

Stand and fight! something in Harry screams. He forces it back down; he knows that it’s better to play dead and surprise your attacker. Instead of standing, he waits in the grass, as still as a coiled serpent about to strike.

The frost is a blessing, now; Harry can track his attacker by the crunching as they walk. Anxiety Harry thought he’d snuffed burns in his chest, but he knows this song and dance well enough that he doesn’t try to fight it. Instead, he feeds it, feeds it so that by the time his opponent is standing right behind him, it’s hot as a brand and sharp as a blade.

There’s a moment of quiet, and then they lean down and put a firm hand on his shoulder, and that’s Harry’s opening to turn and grab and pull the elbow joint, giving his attacker enough momentum to smash their nose directly into his rising forearm with a wet crunch.

And then Harry’s scrabbling backward, breath puffing in the air, wand unholstered and trained on his attacker.

“What the fuck?” his attacker cries, and— it’s Pucey. Again. What is up with him? “Merlin and Morgana, I think you broke my nose.”

Harry can consider how this one will reverberate around the rest of Slytherin in a few minutes when his hand isn’t shock-steady and his heart isn’t trying to make a getaway out his ribcage. In the meantime, he’s busy wondering when Pucey’s going to recover enough to try to hex him.

“What the fuck?” Pucey asks again.

“Well, everyone expects you to push away someone who’s attacking you,” Harry explains helpfully, “so, generally speaking, it’s more effective to pull them in.”

“I wasn’t trying to attack you!” Pucey’s tilting his head back now, probably trying to keep from dirtying his robes. For a second Harry considers telling him that it’s better to tilt his head forward and just do the laundry instead of swallowing blood, but he’s not feeling terribly sympathetic. Pucey can find out the hard way, like Harry did.

“What else would you have been doing?” he asks as he holsters his wand.

“I thought you were dead or— or passed out or something!” Pucey reaches his hand up towards his face like he’s going to check that his nose is still attached, but pauses. “It looked like a pretty bad fall.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, although now that he’s standing it feels a little like he might have bashed his ankle rather badly. An opportunity to practice his newly-learned healing spells, he supposes. “You should probably go see Madam Pomfrey.”

“I can barely see, mate,” Pucey replies, but he’s already started stumbling in the direction of the castle anyway.

“…Sorry for breaking your nose,” Harry says. He taps his broom, shrinks it so he can carry it in his pocket. It’s the sort of thing that degrades the magic of brooms if you do it too often, but he figures he can get away with it just this once. “Let me take you to the infirmary.”

Pucey pauses at that like he’s genuinely surprised. “Thanks. I— I appreciate that.”

The walk is quiet, save for their footsteps. It’s just barely after the start of breakfast, so the infirmary is mostly empty— no class mishaps or after-hours pranksters with minor maladies.

Harry’s just turning to leave when stuffy-voiced Pucey calls, “Wait! I was meaning to ask you—” but Madam Pomfrey is bustling in to see to him, and it’s easy enough for Harry to slip out the door. Pucey wasn’t so bad, for a little while there. That’s not an illusion he wants to break quite yet.

Harry pauses in the hallway outside for a moment, just letting himself breathe. The hall isn’t silent the way it was earlier, but it’s still quiet enough that Harry can feel his heartbeat slowing, can feel himself settling a bit.

After a moment, he reaches down and taps his twinging ankle with his wand, whispers the diagnostic charm he’d learned from one of the healing books in the Black library. A spidery hand writes mild sprained ankle in a pale red script that floats in the air like oil drops atop water.

“Episkey.” There’s a rush of heat, and then of icy cold. Harry casts the diagnostic spell again, just to check if the spell worked properly.

Cruciatus exposure, Acromantula bite on upper calf, malnutrition, dog bite on lower calf—

Harry grimaces. Nothing unusual, then. A wave of his wand disperses the words like so much smoke being blown away, and he starts towards the Great Hall.

Heads turn as Harry enters, but he pretends he doesn’t notice. Instead, he glances over to the Gryffindor table, where Hermione raises her head from her book to smile in greeting and Ron waves with his fork cheerfully. A few seats down, the twins waggle their eyebrows at Harry; Angelina gently whacks the both of them over the head with her Charms textbook and then winks at Harry.

Harry gives all of them a nod, then turns toward the Slytherin table. There’s a place open for him there, which is just as deeply strange as it had been the night of Harry’s re-sorting. It’s between Greengrass and Zabini, like at breakfast yesterday. Harry’s not entirely sure what to make of the way they keep on saving him seats.

He doesn’t think on it for long, though, because Hedwig’s perched on Zabini’s shoulder, surveying the Slytherins like a museum guard watching visitors admire the art. It’s clear that she’s guarding something, and as he approaches, Harry can see what it is— a rectangular package, laying out on his plate.

Harry plops down onto the bench. The package is wrapped in canvas, and there’s a letter tied to it with twine. When Harry picks it up, he can feel that the parchment is heavy, with a texture that Harry knows means it’s expensive. On the front, swooping, elegant cursive reads “Mr. H. J. Potter.”

He turns the envelope around. There’s a seal on the back out of thick dark wax; Harry can just make out the shape of a raised hand, clenched around a wand, above three birds— crows, maybe? Harry’s pretty sure it’s the Black Crest; he’s seen it around Grimmauld Place a few times.

Harry breaks the seal and pulls out the letter, which is on similarly thick parchment, if far smoother than the envelope had been.

Salutations to the Young Master, the letter begins, which is such a Kreacher thing to say that Harry can’t help but grin. He fills a plate with relatively light food, pours himself a cup of coffee, and continues his perusal of the letter.

Kreacher is glad to hear this confirmation of the Young Master’s health and new position within his rightful Hogwarts House. Kreacher dares to say that if “almost everyone” were more sensible, they would be equally unsurprised by the Young Master’s House placement.

It is natural for Young Masters to be homesick, especially when faced with the subpar food provided by the elves of Hogwarts. The meals provided by Hogwarts lack variety, nutrition, and any semblance of taste— both literal and otherwise. Kreacher worries that when Young Master returns, Kreacher will need to brew him a potion to restore his much-abused taste buds to full function. In the meantime, the Young Master must subsist on what portions can be conveyed via owl.

Kreacher regrets that Young Master’s research time has been abbreviated by the demands of schooling. During his tenure at Hogwarts, Master Regulus had similar concerns, most especially with regards to a lack of leisure time to spend crafting new spells and runic schemes. It is one of many ways— the lack of any sort of Dark Arts curriculum being one such notable deficiency— that Hogwarts as an institution is unfortunately insufficient. Under the Hogwarts system, wizards with intuitive, prodigal grasps of specialized fields of magic must languish in overly general classes with little relevance to their goals instead of pursuing the independent research that would allow them to flourish into true masters. The Young Master must be certain to keep up his own studies despite this.

Kreacher suspects the Young Master’s peers would stare a fair bit less if the Young Master dressed in a manner that befits his station. It is disgraceful that a young wizard of such distinction is so often outfitted in muggle rags. Kreacher regrets greatly that little of Master Regulus’ clothing fits the Young Master, and that the orders of Master Sirius and the Weasley woman prevent Kreacher from doing anything of substance to outfit the Young Master in the clothing befitting him.

Harry turns the parchment over, sparing an idle thought to hope that none of the Slytherins can decipher Kreacher’s handwriting from a few feet away. It might be awkward if any of them knew about— Harry glances down the page— oh, excellent, Kreacher’s advice on how to protect his notebook.

The Young Master is correct in assuming that the books of the Black Library are well protected indeed. However, Kreacher regrets to tell the Young Master that it is no spell that may be easily replicated upon a lone notebook, for the protection on the Black Library comes in the form of the Black Family Magic.

Kreacher is well aware of the Young Master’s abysmal magical education, so Kreacher will elaborate. Family magic is formed as the magical residue of curses and spells and runic schemes laid down by the past scions of that house coalesces into something more than the sum of its parts— something with a measure of power and autonomy— that bears the mark of the collective will of the family. It is this magic that protects the Black Library and the books secreted within it, as well as Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’s ancestral home, and a great many other things besides. The Young Master would have never been able to read any of the books of the Black library had the family magics not wished to extend their hospitality to the Young Master.

Harry stares blankly. Kreacher calls getting bitten by the books he’s trying to read hospitality? If that’s hospitality, Harry really doesn’t want to know how the books would treat people they disliked.

Kreacher believes he may yet solve the Young Master’s dilemma, however. Kreacher has included a book from the Black library in this correspondence. The marked page bears a cryptography spell which may be of aid to the Young Master.

If the Young Master requires any other aid, it would be in his best interest not to hesitate to request Kreacher’s assistance.

An ever faithful servant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,

Kreacher

Carefully, Harry refolds the letter and tucks it into his pocket. That done, he turns his attention to the package itself. The canvas covering it is sealed with a weak sticking charm, one that easily gives way when Harry applies a bit of force.

The first thing Harry notices once the canvas is off is the smell. Even just after eating breakfast, it’s enough to make him hungry. It’s a familiar scent— vanilla and caramel and just a hint of eggs. Sure enough, there it is; that funny dessert Kreacher kept on serving him back at Grimmauld Place, packed away in a cylindrical dish that’s been enchanted to stay cool as a cucumber.

Harry picks up his spoon and digs in. It’s just as delicious as always— creamy, but not so rich that it’ll upset Harry’s sensitive stomach, with every note of flavor perfectly balanced in a way that Harry never bothered with for the dishes he cooked for the Dursleys. Harry hums in satisfaction, blissfully ignoring the way Greengrass is watching him far too attentively. After a few more bites, he pulls the next item out of his package.

Green knit stretches beneath his fingers. Kreacher’s sent him a scarf— a Slytherin one, out of yarn so fine and soft that Harry suspects it must be some sort of cashmere blend. Harry has a good idea who this belonged to. Sure enough, when he checks in the corner, there it is: R.A.B., written out in silver embroidery.

Harry doesn’t bother to unwrap the book on cryptography; he doesn’t want to betray his plans, after all. Instead, he tucks the book away with the letter, then loops his new scarf loosely around his neck and settles in to finish the delicious dessert Kreacher sent him.

The rest is gone much too quickly, even though Harry makes sure to savor every spoonful, to mindfully appreciate the work that must have gone into the contrast of the delicate crunch of the top layer and the gentle give of the custard. Carefully, Harry tucks the empty dish into the now-empty package. It’s already cleaning itself, he notes with delight. No rotting food to worry about.

Kreacher’s spoiling him, Harry thinks. He’s going to be as bad as Dudley soon.

Around him, the bustle of breakfast is starting to die down. He must’ve shown up late enough and spent long enough eating that classes are going to start soon. If he’s remembering his schedule correctly, he’s got double Transfiguration first thing today. McGonagall’s sure to assign a whole heap of homework, he knows. Harry hasn’t even started any of what Flitwick assigned. Required charms and potions really can’t compare to any of his research, and he would much rather spend time learning to protect himself than writing a roll of parchment on the applications of spells that are mostly irrelevant to his real problems.

A glance at the clock indicates that if he hurries— and uses the secret passage from earlier— he should be able to take a quick shower and replace his broom with his school bag while still getting to class on time.

As he rises, Zabini shifts a little in his seat like he’s about to get up, too. “I’ll see you in Transfiguration,” Harry tells him, and Zabini settles back down again.

He hurries down the passage at a brisk clip. There are a couple of students in the Common Room, but Harry breezes past them quickly enough that it hardly matters. Once he’s in his dorm room, Harry grabs a clean uniform and ducks into the bathroom. A childhood spent taking three minute showers in ice-cold water on pain of Aunt Petunia’s pinches serves him well, and he’s out again in a jiffy. Harry quickly switches his broom out for his school things and, bag slung over his shoulder, jogs to Transfiguration.

Harry slides into the desk Zabini and Greengrass have saved for him just as the bell rings. Professor McGonagall eyes him disapprovingly; Harry just flicks his wet curls from where they’re sticking his forehead and grins back at her.

Professor McGonagall spends the first part of class lecturing about how they need to be sure to properly prepare for their O.W.L.s. After just a few minutes of sustained listening, even Malfoy looks a little green, but Harry is utterly undeterred. What does it matter if he doesn’t have any sort of proper school qualifications? What does it matter if he has no possible careers open to him? He’s never going to be able to work as a Healer or a Potions Master or a Wardbreaker; he’s going to be far too busy fighting Voldemort for anything so peaceful as that. Frankly, Harry finds it a bit naive that Professor McGonagall thinks that there will even be intact institutional structures in a few years.

Professor McGonagall must pick up on his skepticism because she keeps on saying more and more dire things, then glancing at Harry and, when she sees him watching her with a sort of distant, polite interest, rapidly redoubling her efforts.

By the time she gives up, it’s been at least a half-hour and several of the Slytherins’ eyes are bouncing back and forth between the two of them like they’re watching a tennis match.

Vanishing Spells themselves are a fair bit more difficult than Summoning Charms. It makes sense— Harry’d practiced Summoning Charms quite a bit before Professor Flitwick taught them, whereas he has no experience with Vanishing Spells whatsoever. He still manages to Vanish his snail eventually, and he takes McGonagall’s mountain of homework with the good grace of someone who isn’t overmuch worried about whether or not he finishes it.

Zabini and Greengrass are talking about spending their lunch break in the library; Harry nods along and makes vague noises of agreement before cheerily slipping away to eat with Ron and Hermione. Greengrass’s mouth twists into an elegant, dissatisfied moue, but Zabini whispers something in her ear that gets her to let it go, and Harry’s able to enjoy a nice lunch listening to Ron and Hermione carry on an argument that seems to be about the merits of woolly hats.

After lunch is Herbology with the Ravenclaws. Harry partners up with Goldstein, who keeps on looking at Harry like he’s a funny new creature that he’d like to study. It’s a good thing that the work they’re doing requires absolute silence lest they wake the Nocturnal Chrysanthemums. Otherwise, Harry thinks he’d be facing another batch of nonsensical questions from Goldstein.

Following Herbology the Slytherins have History of Magic, so Harry thinks he’ll head out to the grounds— it’s quite nice out— and finish reading his book on battlefield magic. The cryptography book should probably wait until he’s somewhere more private, he figures.

“Are you going to go skip class?” Greengrass asks in a light, politely disapproving sort of way.

“Yes,” Harry replies. “I’ve been skipping History of Magic since practically the start of last year.”

Greengrass’ brow furrows. “And Professor McGonagall didn’t stop you— Professor McGonagall let you skip History of Magic?”

“No,” Harry says, and Greengrass’s face relaxes like everything is right in the world again. “She let me skip History of Magic and Divination.”

The look on Greengrass’ face is hysterical. Harry regrets nothing.

“I was in the Triwizard Tournament last year,” Harry reminds her. “A tournament that’s killed wizards older and more experienced than me. As McGonagall put it, she’d rather have me be alive with a T in Divination than dead with a perfect attendance record.” He smiles as he remembers that day McGonagall had pulled into her office for a meeting about his attendance, how the stern set of her face had softened as Harry explained, in fits and starts, why he was skipping class.

“You spent those class periods studying, then?” Zabini asks.

Harry nods. “McGonagall made it very clear that I would spend my new free periods preparing for the Tournament. Not that I had any intention of wasting any time fooling around.”

“There’s no Tournament this year,” Greengrass starts, before she realizes how stupid Harry would have to be to believe that things are safe now and cuts herself off.

He smiles back at her, light and laughing but not at all joyful. Her grey eyes look like the ashy clay they used to use for their primary school art projects, back in Little Whinging— the same smooth blankness.

“I’ll see you both in Care of Magical Creatures.” He turns and heads out, whistling as he goes.

Harry is heading back to the common room when he sees Pucey loitering in one of the corridors near the entrance. He’s leaning against the wall casually, and when he looks up, it’s slow enough to seem nonchalant. Still, there’s a spark glinting in his eyes. Most people would read it as excitement, but Harry knows that it could just as easily be malice or a particularly sharp-edged sort of bloodlust.

Harry bites back a sigh and forces himself to keep walking, dropping his gaze so it’ll seem like he didn’t register Pucey’s presence. The whole attempt was futile from the start, so it’s no surprise when Pucey pushes off the wall and calls out to him. “Potter! I wanted to talk to you.”

Possibilities flick through Harry’s head: he wants to warn Harry off talking to the first years, he wants to know why books are missing from the common room, he wants to try his hand at blackmail. Pucey’s body language is open in a self-conscious, studied sort of way, like he’s actively trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible. That just makes Harry even warier— anyone who cares that much about having his trust must have some sort of plan that relies on abusing it.

“About what?” Harry asks finally. “If this is about your nose, don’t bother.” He knows that it isn’t about his nose. This is the third time Harry’s seen Pucey today; clearly, he’s got some sort of ulterior motive.

“It’s not.” Pucey’s got a funny way of speaking, slowly and in bursts. It’s like his words get stopped up inside and then come out all at once. “Your flying out there was— impressive.”

Harry’s stomach turns unhappily at the reminder of how he spent his morning. He shouldn’t have wasted his time like that— flying for flying’s sake is a luxury he can’t afford. Still, the memory of it is enough to bring a distant smile to his lips. For a little while there he’d nearly felt as free as he did back in autumn of first year, when the most important thing in his life was Quidditch.

Harry doesn’t reply, so Pucey presses, “You were a Seeker for Gryffindor last year, right?” Harry doesn’t respond to that either, and Pucey’s lips twitch in a way that isn’t amused, but oddly enough, also isn’t at all annoyed. Harry doesn’t understand Slytherins. “I’d like to ask you to join the Slytherin Quidditch team.”

...Harry really doesn’t understand Slytherins.

Harry’s first instinct is flat-out rejection, but he quickly discards the concept. Harry could probably take Pucey in a fight, judging by how their little scuffle on the pitch went, but Pucey’s still a seventh year with the ear of the prefects. Stalling for time is safer. “You already have a Seeker,” Harry finally replies.

“Malfoy will listen to me,” Pucey replies. He’s way more confident of that than Harry would be in his position. “We can figure something out, the three of us.”

“Talk to him, then talk to me.” Harry turns towards the entrance to the common room. With any luck, Malfoy will throw enough of a fit that Pucey’s forced to give up on the whole thing.

“I wanted an answer from you.” There’s still no edge of anger to his voice. It’s disconcerting, and Harry doesn’t like it— in his experience, the slower to anger someone is, the more dangerous they are when they finally do snap. “That’s why I asked you.”

“You got my answer.” Harry jerks a nod. “See you.”

“See you,” Pucey echoes. He still doesn’t sound angry.

Harry approaches the entrance to the common room, keeping his muscles loose by will alone. His mind is still on Pucey, which is probably why he doesn’t think before greeting the stretch of wall before him in Parseltongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Pucey startling, his whole body jolting, and then the entrance opens and Harry steps inside.

Harry had planned on avoiding the common room as much as possible, but Zabini had made him promise to come by after class so he and Greengrass could give him the tour he missed that first night. Anyway, the weather is so nice that there’s no way there will be too many people inside.

...or maybe not.

The common room is fuller than Harry had anticipated, and the way every eye snaps to him makes it feel positively stuffed. Harry almost spins on his heel and leaves, but he had resolved that first night not to show the Slytherins any weakness, and now is no time to walk back on that. Harry’s shoulders straighten into the ramrod straight posture Aunt Petunia had forced him to use whenever she deigned to take him out in public, and he stares straight ahead, gaze cool as ice and just as smooth.

Greengrass and Zabini don’t seem to be here yet, so Harry heads to the only couch he’s willing to sit on— the one with its back to a wall and a line of sight to each of the entrances and exits. He’s about to pull out Stopgate Healing Craft Learned on the Battlefields of the Continent when Malfoy walks into the common room and steers straight towards Harry.

No posse, oddly enough, just Parkinson. Harry doesn’t have time to wonder why that might be because Malfoy is already upon him, crashing over him with all the sound and fury of a wave destroying itself on the impassive stone of the shore.

“Potter,” he sneers. He’s trying to use their difference in height to his advantage. He probably thinks he’s looming, but Harry thinks the way he’s leaning over Harry just makes it look like he’s got some sort of stomach ulcer that’s paining him.

Harry stares up at him. He can’t believe that at one point, he actually found Malfoy intimidating. This is honestly just a little bit pathetic.

“Adrian’s been talking to me,” Malfoy continues.

“How unfortunate for him,” Harry says dryly. “I suppose even seventh years have to resign themselves to enduring life’s little annoyances on occasion.”

Malfoy flushes with anger. Harry tilts his head as he wonders, not for the first time, how far he would have to push Malfoy to get those two high spots of color to spread and darken into the puce color Uncle Vernon takes on when he’s truly, murderously angry.

Harry’s never been the patient sort. He used to goad Uncle Vernon on purpose just to get the inevitable punishment over with so he wouldn’t have to endure the terrible suspense of waiting for the sword of Damocles to fall. Things with the Slytherins have been tense enough to drive Harry to distraction, and that’s on top of everything with Voldemort— you can hardly blame him for wanting to get his inevitable spat with Malfoy out of the way.

“Adrian says that you’re trying to usurp my position as Slytherin Seeker,” Malfoy accuses once he’s recovered most of his composure.

“Did he?” Harry’s eyebrows lift. “I told him that I’d think about it. I’m not sure I like the time commitment. Or the company.”

Malfoy’s face screws up at that. It reminds Harry of one of Aunt Petunia’s signature expressions, the one Harry had privately dubbed “fifties housewife bites into lemon but is too obsessed with looking respectable to spit it out.”

Malfoy’s voice is soft when he finally speaks, presumably the better to rise to a dramatic, ringing crescendo. “You’re telling me—” and, yes, his volume is rising already “— Adrian offered you a spot you didn’t even want? My position? Mine?”

Harry considers the matter for a moment and then nods. “Yes, that sounds about right.” He lifts Stopgate Healing Craft Learned on the Battlefields of the Continent from his bag. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some reading I was planning on doing.”

Malfoy rips the book from his hands and throws it to the floor. Harry frowns. He’s spent enough time around Hermione that just seeing a book get dog-eared gives him an unpleasant feeling, and that book is old and delicate. Still, picking it up would mean exposing the back of his neck to Malfoy.

“I demand a duel!” Malfoy yells. He’s nearly as loud as Aunt Petunia was that one time Harry chipped a mug, and just as attention-grabbing. His face has finally gone fully puce, Harry notes with some sort of sick satisfaction. “I demand satisfaction!”

Harry can’t help the way he smiles. He thinks it’s the same sort of smile as the one he’d worn so often at the start of the summer, when his lip was split and his cheeks were already bruising from Dudley’s blows, but the wild thing in him was satiated and he understood a little bit better what kind of stance works best to avoid being knocked over.

A hush falls over the room, and it’s so quiet that when he says, “alright,” it’s like dropping a heavy stone into a still pond. Around them, the whole common room springs into action— the people press to the walls, and the furniture shifts, couches sliding out of the way and rugs rolling up and hopping into the corner and braziers bursting out of the wall at even intervals so that the room is open and blazing with light.

“Very well,” Malfoy says. His voice is a bit faint, enough so that Harry has to wonder if he didn't actually expect Harry to accept his challenge. Then Malfoy draws a deep breath in, and when he exhales his face is set like it always was before a Quidditch match— arrogance and determination mingled as one like he doesn’t know the difference between them.

Malfoy starts casting without warning. “Ignominiam! Entomorphis! Follejare!”

Showy spells, all with a focus on disfiguring or humiliating the target. Malfoy’s focus is playing to his audience, not winning the duel.

Harry draws up a simple shield, just a Protego fueled by only a fraction of the power he could put into it. Malfoy approaches in long strides, his arm sweeping through the air like a conductor with each spell he casts. Just like the way he’d purposefully lowered his voice so he could raise it to a crescendo later, he’s not bothering to even try to crack Harry’s shield charm yet— it’ll be more dramatic if he waits until he’s “fought” his way right up to Harry and breaks through Harry’s shield then.

Malfoy’s next stride brings them practically nose to nose. He comes to a stop, and his grip on his wand changes. Harry can tell he’s about to try to break through the shield.

The room seems to inhale as one as, with the sudden, lethal grace of a striking snake, Harry drops to a crouch and sweeps Malfoy’s legs out from under him. “Expelliarmus.” Piers Polkiss had loved that move, and Harry’d suffered on the other end of it enough that it had been one of the things he practiced the most during the part of the summer he spent with the Dursleys.

Harry rises to his feet, Malfoy’s wand in hand. It’s a little bit shorter than his own, and it feels… strange. Harry’s wand, and for that matter, his magic, has always felt like heat, whether that comes in the form of the blunted warmth of sunlight, or the hot wet simmer of magma, or, more often, the dry, fierce burn of a wildfire. Compared to that, Malfoy’s magic feels stagnant and cold.

“That wasn’t a real duel!” Malfoy protests indignantly. “There’s no way that you— you can’t do that— don’t you know anything about dueling, you have to wait until both people bow!”

Bow before Death, Harry. Harry’s gazes cools. “My apologies.” He laughs dryly, humorlessly. “I had assumed, given the way you had progressed to casting, I could as well.”

Someone in the crowd of Slytherins laughs at that, which is strange enough that Harry raises his gaze and glances over. Greengrass and Zabini must have arrived sometime during the duel because there they are, standing near the fireplace. Harry shouldn’t be surprised; he doubts anyone else would have a laugh quite as low and smooth and disconcertingly pleasant as the one he’d just heard, besides Zabini.

Zabini tips his head to Harry in greeting, a smirk tugging at his lips; Greengrass just gives him a nod. Their actions and motivations are still strange to Harry, and the way Zabini seems intent on making his new association with Harry publically known just confuses Harry even further.

“Give me my wand back, damn it!”

Harry nods his acknowledgment to Greengrass and Zabini and then turns back to Malfoy. “With pleasure.” He tosses Malfoy’s wand back to him, watching him scramble to catch it in a way that’s rather unseemly for someone who’s supposed to be a Seeker.

Malfoy finally gets a proper grasp on his wand. He huffs, straightening his robes, and then says, “We duel again. Properly, this time.”

Harry smiles. He’s always happy to get an opportunity to practice in an actual duel instead of just casting spells in a controlled environment. “Fine by me.”

When Malfoy pivots on his heel like he’s about to start walking the customary twelve paces, that smile drops away. “Oi, Malfoy, what the hell? You’re not planning on setting up boundary wards to protect all of these bystanders?” Harry gestures at the watching Slytherins. There are younger students in that crowd, even a couple of first years Harry recognizes from that first night. “Are you just that negligent, or do you genuinely not give a shit about collateral damage?” Sirius and Mad-Eye had always set up boundary wards before dueling, although they’d used different wards than the one Harry is about to set up.

Malfoy turns and is about to reply, but Harry’s already busy using the cauterization curse from Stopgate Healing Craft Learned on the Battlefields of the Continent to char a thick, dark line down the wood of the common room floor. Back at Grimmauld Place Harry had usually used a cutting curse to chisel the boundary line, but it had been a slow and rather inefficient business, and using fire for this just feels right.

This ward prevents the passage of magic so thoroughly that not even spell residue can slip through, which was immensely useful for when Harry was practicing Darker spells he didn’t want someone like Mrs. Weasley finding out about. It’s also powerful enough that Harry had considered trying to use it in battle as a shield, but he’d been forced to give up the idea because the ward blocks magic coming from both directions— Harry would be perfectly safe, but so would his opponent. All told, Harry must have cast it perhaps two dozen times this summer.

Once the line has been laid, Harry summons three stones from the walls of the common room with a twist of his wand and an unspoken accio. He weighs each in his hand for a moment, checking their weight, and then carefully scorches the rune that denotes something as a nexus into each. It’s more magic than he’d usually be willing to burn right before a duel, but it’s worth it to make sure the cloud of first-years watching with big eyes stays safe.

Once that’s done, Harry tosses the stones out, not even bothering to aim. The attractive magic between the corresponding pieces of a half-finished ward is enough that the three stones naturally center themselves on the line, segmenting it precisely. Harry smiles. He’s always found that deeply satisfying.

Now for the real magic. Harry lifts his wand and starts casting. “Colpe cest linea divisionis per magie!” It took Harry a long time to learn how to pronounce all these foreign words, and Kreacher had had to help him quite a bit. Apparently, the incantation for this spell is in a mix of Old French and Latin and something called Old Occitan. Harry managed to get it down eventually, though, and that’s what matters. “Reflétere!”

The charred line blazes with light, and the nexuses spin like lodestones searching for North. Then they all settle back down to a wakeful quietness. Harry can taste his success in the iron laying heavy on his tongue.

Harry tucks his wand away and turns, smiling, to the watching Slytherins, who are staring like they’ve never seen a boundary ward before. “You can test it out to double-check that it’ll do its job if you like,” he tells them helpfully. That’ll give him a minute to catch his breath without anyone realizing that he’d even gotten tired.

There’s a moment when no one moves, and then one of the seventh year Slytherins steps forward, wand drawn. He slashes his wand through the air, then whips it like he’s twisting magic around the tip of his wand. When he strikes, lightning crackles through the air. Harry thinks it’s some sort of shield breaker, although he’s not sure what; he’ll have to hunt it down later.

Against Harry’s ward, it shatters into a thousand little wisps of magic and refracts back onto the students in a soft spray of glistening, barely visible residue. The seventh year nods formally and steps back to his place against the wall. Behind him, Harry can see one of the first years who he’s pretty sure was introduced to him as Mateo Burnet perched on the arm of a couch. There’s a bright, delighted light in his eyes as he cranes to get a better look. Harry gives him a quick wink, and his lip twitches at the way Burnet immediately lights up.

Harry turns to face Malfoy again. “Shall we begin?”

Malfoy nods jerkily. They both bow, Harry with a sardonic little twist of his hands that makes it clear how silly he thinks this whole thing is. Then they turn and begin taking the customary twelve paces. Harry has just taken his tenth step when he feels a spell slamming into his back.

The spell throws him upwards and backward, flipping him head over heels as he goes. Finite incantatem, Harry thinks, and he can feel the spell drop him feet-first.

In this situation, most people’s instinctual reaction would be to try to slow their fall. As such, Harry does the exact opposite, pulling his limbs tight to his body like a diving bird of prey so he’ll fall even faster. In the split second before he hits the ground, he manages to pull up a wave of raw magic that burns in the air like a heatwave and disperses his weight through the ground, allowing him to land lightly on his toes instead of breaking an ankle. Unfortunately, this move also has the unfortunate side effect of shattering the floor around him, crumpling the wood into a mess of splinters and twisted planks. He’ll have to figure out how to repair that later.

Harry steps out of the crater and draws up a quick shield. Malfoy’s spell has thrown him a good way back and thus prevents Harry from using any of his close-quarters combat skills. Maybe Malfoy does have a single iota of sense, Harry notes with faint surprise.

“Falx!” Harry swishes his wand in a wide crescent, and a curved blade of pure magic slices through the air right at ankle height. He’d found that particular spell in a book of household charms Mrs. Weasley sent him for Christmas in fourth year; it’s meant for trimming grass, but Harry had realized its potential for trimming enemies’ ankles at once.

Malfoy has to leap to avoid getting his feet lopped off. The blade sweeps back around, sensing that there’s still grass (or in this case, enemy ankles) left uncut. That’s Harry’s favorite thing about household charms; they’re made for absent-minded housewives, which means they almost always have a little bit of sentience to them.

While Malfoy’s occupied dodging the sweeping blade, Harry murmurs, “orbis.” The ground develops a texture similar to treacle, and the next time Malfoy’s feet hit it, he sinks several inches in. Harry had picked that spell up during his preparation for the Triwizard Tournament the year before; he’d been thinking of using it on the Hungarian Horntail.

The blade glides towards Malfoy again, and it’s only a flick of Harry’s wand that prevents him from losing everything below his ankle. “If I hadn’t intervened, you’d be missing your feet,” Harry says. “It would probably be good form to admit defeat, at this point.”

Malfoy snarls. “My father always said that duels were meant to be an expression of the complexity and acuity of the participants’ magic and that the duelist with the more advanced control of his magic would win. I refuse to admit defeat to someone who is using a grass cutting charm.”

A wave of Malfoy’s wand sends a spell that takes the form of a silver blade whirling in Harry’s direction.

“More evidence of your father being an idiot, then,” Harry replies. “The person who wins the duel isn’t the smartest person, it’s the one who comes out alive.”

Harry can tell from the trajectory of the blade that it’s carried along by force alone and not magic; he raises a little wind with a breeze-creating charm from the same book of household charms as earlier and smiles sunnily as the blade embeds itself in the tapestry hanging behind him.

“Assuming that the smartest person will win is idiotic and encourages complacency, which is dangerous.” His mouth twists downwards as he thinks of the times Dudley had managed to beat him black and blue because Harry’d thought being smarter than Dudley meant he would win— or even be able to come out relatively unscathed. Another flick of his wand sends a Full Body-Bind Curse Malfoy’s way, making him desperately lean out of the way.

“Then again,” Harry continues, “Your father and I disagree on far more fundamental matters than the purpose of dueling. No surprise, considering the last place I saw him.”

Someone on the other side of the boundary wards draws in a sharp breath. They didn’t think he would mention that outright, did they? Harry laughs a little. Keeping his words bitten back and bottled up gets tiring sometimes, and right now he’s not inclined to hold back from saying what he really thinks.

Malfoy’s wand hand is loose, like he’s so surprised by hearing Harry bring up his father’s extracurricular activities that he’s forgotten he’s in the middle of the duel. “Your father,” Harry continues as he stalks steadily closer, “gave a deadly dark object to a first year, unleashed a fully grown basilisk in a castle full of school children—”

“What,” someone in the crowd demands.

Harry snorts. “What did you think the Monster of Slytherin was? A runespoor?”

“You’re— you’re lying,” Malfoy protests in a trembling voice.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s true,” Harry replies. “And even if you don’t care about your father’s appalling lack of regard for human life, you should know that he’s also stupid. Back in second year, after I killed the same basilisk he was fool enough to let loose, your father almost murdered me two fucking feet from Dumbledore’s office.”

He pauses for a moment to let that sink in (because really, how stupid can you be?) and then finishes, “The day I give even a single shit what your father thinks is the day I ask Hermione to shoot me between the eyes as a mercy kill.”

“...father almost k—killed you?” Malfoy asks. His face is the color of whey, and he looks far younger than he is. He isn’t even bothering to struggle, even though the floor has congealed around his feet enough that a few clever spells could set him free.

Harry sighs. “That doesn’t make him special, Malfoy.” He crouches down next to Malfoy and removes Malfoy’s wand from his unresisting hand. His voice is almost gentle, now. “Everyone almost murders me. Even the Defense teachers, and most of them are too dumb to know the end of their wand from the end of a quill.”

He sits back on his heels and lets Malfoy’s wand dangle from the tips of his fingers; he doesn’t want to touch it more than it has to. The longer he holds it, the more it feels like a clump of limp seaweed flopping around in his hand. “Is this duel done?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy says absently. His eyes are distant, like he’s lost in thought.

Harry passes Malfoy’s wand back over and rises to his feet. He begins tugging each nexus from the boundary ward with little twists of his wrist, trying to ignore the blank-faced, staring Slytherins. At his place on the arm of the couch, Mateo Burnet looks like he’s trying not to cry. That makes Harry’s stomach twist with guilt. He’d forgotten that there were still first years in the common room.

He steps over the boundary line and crouches down so he’s eye level with Burnet. “Hey,” he says. “I promise your Hogwarts experience will be nowhere near as dangerous as mine’s been. Hogwarts is generally relatively safe, I just have shit luck.”

The swear word makes Burnet’s lips twitch, which had been Harry’s intention, but the hint of humor leaves Burnet’s expression nearly as quickly as it had appeared. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he snaps, and then blurts out, “Are you gonna—” his voice breaks and suddenly he seems more sad and scared than angry. “Are you gonna d—die?

Harry sighs. “Everyone dies eventually.” Burnet just keeps on staring at him demandingly, so Harry says, “no one’s managed to kill me yet. And,” Harry flashes his teeth in a fierce smile, “I have no intention of dying.”

He sees a clump of fourth years who happen to be standing nearby seem to relax at that, and Harry can’t help the way his brow furrows, just a little bit. He can’t believe he’s thinking this, but Slytherins seem so naive. He’s starting to get the impression that most of them have never really encountered death— that to most of them, it isn’t even a concrete concept.

“I’m holding you to that,” Zabini says. He must have walked up without Harry noticing. His toned arms are crossed over his chest, and there’s a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Alright,” Harry shrugs. He pats Burnet on the shoulder (being sure, as always, to telegraph every move clearly enough that Burnet could avoid it if he wanted to) and then stands, brushing off his robes. Greengrass is standing just behind Zabini, looking paler than he’s ever seen her. Harry frowns. “Are you alright, Greengrass? You look like might faint.”

Greengrass opens her mouth, pauses, and then begins laughing hysterically. After a moment, Zabini joins in, and then so does Burnet, and several of the fourth years who had been eavesdropping, and Pucey, who had been sneaking closer like he was hoping to talk about Quidditch, and the seventh year from earlier who’d tested out the boundary ward.

Harry resists the urge to sigh through willpower alone. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Slytherins.

No one really takes Potter’s Sorting seriously at first.

Potter’s not just a Gryffindor, he’s the Gryffindor. They’ve all seen him on the Quidditch Pitch, fleet and fearless as he dives at impossible angles, pulls into turns sharp enough to cut someone with, catches snitches in his Merlin-hexed mouth— and all of that was before he was brash and reckless and Gryffindor enough to enroll himself into a deadly tournament meant only for of-age wizards.

(There’s also the way that Potter is diametrically opposed to the Dark Lord, paragon of all things Slytherin, but none of them like to think about Him too much.)

All this to say that when Potter steps up to the stool and sits under the Sorting Hat, they expect a redux of his original Sorting. Surely the Hat will send him back to Gryffindor the moment its brim brushes his jet-black bird’s nest.

Instead, there’s a confused, muddled mess of a Sorting, during which the Hat proclaims Potter a Slytherin three separate times, laughs a disturbing amount, and generally acts like its enchantments have gone rotten.

They all wait for Potter to turn and demand that Dumbledore do something, to protest that he isn’t a Slytherin, to storm over to sit at the Gryffindor table. Instead, he says nothing as he rises, stony-faced and hard-eyed, and heads to the Slytherin table.

Daphne scrambles to make room for him, but he passes Daphne with scarcely more than a brief, cursory glance, ignoring her in favor of sitting with the first years. Daphne can physically feel her mouth trying to twist up. Inviting Potter to sit with her isn’t unexpected considering she’s the only proper political neutral in her year, but that doesn’t mean it’s exactly going to gain her any affection—and he didn’t even take the seat.

Across the table from her, Malfoy is trying to scowl at Potter (its force is dulled by the shock still lingering in his expression) and the rest of his posse is, as always, following his lead. No surprise there.

Having ascertained what’s going on with the biggest player in their year, Daphne casts a quick glance around to check the other Slytherins’ responses. Davis is looking at Potter with a slight frown, Bulstrode is pretending to be distracted reading but keeps on “subtly” glancing over at Potter, and Blaise has his chin propped up on his fist as he doesn’t even bother to pretend to not be watching Potter’s every move. Even Nott, who usually spends the first few days back at Hogwarts with distant eyes that seem to slide over everything without truly seeing anything, is looking Potter’s way.

It’s like that for the rest of dinner. It’s one of the quietest dinners Daphne’s ever experienced, and her Great Aunt Lusitania has turned the silent treatment into an art form.

Malfoy pulls her aside in the Common Room later that night. “The first years wouldn’t shut up about Potter,” he grits out. “They barely listened during the tour. Make sure he’s sitting with you at breakfast tomorrow and not them.”

Daphne nods, already concocting a plan to make it happen. In the morning, though; right now she wants to just go to sleep and pretend this is all a funny dream brought on by a potion that’s gone bad.

Daphne wakes up early the next morning and immediately starts setting her little plan into motion. She begins by approaching the seventh year prefects, who break off their quiet conversation to listen to what she has to say.

“The first years were… understandably distracted during the tour night before, and frankly,” Daphne lets her lips twist just the right amount, “I don’t think Malfoy’s fixation on Potter helped matters any.”

The prefects exchange glances. “We’ll hold the tour again before breakfast this morning,” Meridiction says. Malfoy is notorious for always sleeping in late.

Daphne nods her thanks. The prefects can probably guess that she’s scheming, but Slytherins tend not to derail each other’s schemes without reason— and the issue she’s presented is a legitimate one.

Daphne is about to go search out her sister when the door to the fifth year boys’ dormitories opens and out steps Potter. His curls are still wet from the shower, and his body language is loose and confident in a way that makes Daphne realize just how stiff he usually is. When he realizes he’s being watched, his stride stutters for a moment, and then he flops down a couch in the corner of the Common Room, looking tired and irritated. Against her better judgment, Daphne finds herself feeling just a little bit bad for him.

She’s about to turn away again when she sees Blaise rise from his seat and approach Potter. Potter tenses even further, and then whatever Blaise has to say has Potter bursting into laughter— full, hysterical peals of laughter that have him folding over like his mirth is too big for his body. Daphne sees Potter wiping away a tear and knows Potter’s laughing at Blaise and not with him— nothing Blaise says is even half funny enough to cry laughing over.

A moment later Potter leaves, still shaking his head incredulously and with the ghost of his laughter lingering in the folds of his cheeks. Blaise strides over to Daphne, looking far too happy for someone who just had the Boy-Who-Lived laugh in his face in a semi-public setting. “Can we talk?” he asks in a low voice.

Daphne nods slowly and leads him out of the Common Room into a nearby little-used corridor. After casting a few anti-eavesdropping charms, Blaise speaks.

“There’s more to Potter than most people think. It may be worth… investing in him, shall we say.”

Daphne raises her eyebrows slowly. “This is Potter we’re talking about.” She doesn’t bother to elaborate; she doesn’t have to. “And besides, didn’t he just laugh at whatever you proposed, back in the Common Room?”

“And what a lovely laugh it was,” Blaise says at once.

Daphne raises an eyebrow. Everyone knows that Blaise is an insufferable flirt, but flirting with Potter is like playing with fire. He’ll have to be careful not to do that anywhere Slytherins other than her can hear— or, Merlin forbid, Potter. Daphne doesn’t even want to think how Potter would react.

Blaise adds, “I think he may have warded his bed last night— using blood.”

Daphne’s eyes widen against her will. Blood warding isn’t exactly a common practice— years of the Ministry prosecuting anything deemed “Dark” has seen to that. If Potter really did ward his bed using blood, that suggests both that he’s got more skill than he’s letting on, and that might be willing to ally with wizards and witches with magic shades other than blindingly light. For a moment something bright and hopeful burns in her chest.

...and then she remembers just who they’re talking about, and common sense rushes back in like a wave of cold water. “Really? Potter?” Daphne asks skeptically.

Blaise just smiles back at her. “Just… keep your eyes open.” With that, he dissolves the anti-eavesdropping charms and strides off. Blaise always has to have the last word; it’s one of his worst traits.

Daphne takes a moment to gather herself and then heads back into the Common Room. She still needs to talk to her sister.

It’s easier than she had expected to convince Astoria to play her part. Astoria needs to sit with the second years for the first part of breakfast— which shouldn’t be that difficult. The problem is that Astoria hates anyone assuming she’s younger than she is. Luckily, Astoria is as interested in learning more about Harry Potter as anyone, so she’s willing to make a few sacrifices.

Everything seems to be running smoothly— at least until Daphne walks into the Great Hall and sees Potter at the Gryffindor table with Granger, their heads bent together as they talk quietly. Potter glances up as they enter, shoulders straightening even as he skims over them with cool, dismissive eyes. For a moment, with Potter sitting there straight-backed and steely-eyed, Daphne thinks she can see what Blaise was talking about— and then Potter is standing with surprising grace, swinging his school bag over one shoulder and heading for the door, and Daphne can feel something in her stomach curdling with frustration.

Professor McGonagall stops him, and Potter turns towards the Slytherin table, his lips crumpled together with frustration. Daphne releases a caught breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding and watches with a sort of quiet satisfaction as the rest of her plan falls into place, piece by piece, until finally Potter is settled in between her and Blaise.

Even so, Potter is so stubbornly reticent that Daphne would almost think him mute, except for the way he easily exchanges words with the new Gryffindor Quidditch captain. From where she sits and listens quietly to Johnson’s conversation with Potter, Daphne can easily pick up what Johnson is really saying— firstly, that Potter is still a Gryffindor in her books, secondly that anyone who harms Potter will answer to her about it, and thirdly that she intends to keep Potter on as Seeker for Gryffindor. Daphne has to wonder how their own Captain will feel about that. Pucey’s politically neutral, and even Daphne knows Potter is a better Seeker than Malfoy.

Daphne is drawn out of her thoughts by the arrival of a flurry of owls. Potter’s new Sorting has changed the political landscape in Slytherin overnight, and any family with even a single iota of sense is sending its children instructions on what revisions, if any, they should be making to their behavior in the wake of this change.

Daphne tucks her own slim letter into her pocket. She’s got a good idea what it says: try to keep Potter from dying, getting maimed, or becoming so traumatized he’s unable to function, but do it while making as few waves as possible. She certainly won’t be receiving any instructions to “invest” in Potter, as Blaise put it— the Greengrasses may have no interest in serving a mad Dark Lord, but they’re not a Light family, either.

Next to her, Potter is scoffing quietly. He doesn’t seem to have received any letters, though Daphne supposes he could have tucked one away while she was distracted. Although, Daphne recalls suddenly, hadn’t Malfoy ridiculed Potter for living with Muggle relatives? If that’s true and not just one of Malfoy’s many fabrications, it makes sense that he isn’t getting any owls. It would also make Blaise’s claim that Potter was laying down blood wards on his bed even more absurd.

Before Daphne can think on that much further, Professor Snape is stopping by to drop off their schedules. Potter goes tense, and Daphne can see him tracking Professor Snape’s progress across the room. He doesn’t seem scared, exactly, but Daphne thinks that if Professor Snape pulled out his wand and tried to hex him right there, Potter wouldn’t be surprised.

Daphne had vaguely known that there was animosity between the two of them, but this is absurd— especially considering the way Professor Snape completely ignores Potter. Maybe Potter’s gotten up to some sort of mischief already, and he’s worried that Professor Snape has found out?

Potter watches until Professor Snape is long gone, and then glances briefly at his schedule and departs. The plate he leaves is still half-full, and his meal was small from the beginning. Perhaps his appetite is atrophied by anxiety, but he didn’t look anxious— instead, he seems to be some combination of wary and resigned. A diet, then? Daphne remembers some of the fad diets Malfoy had tried, thinking it would help him out on the pitch. Seekers are known for their slim build, after all.

Daphne is drawn from her thoughts when Malfoy asks, in a tone of deep delight, “is Potter scared of Professor Snape?”

How ironic, Daphne thinks with private humor, that a Slytherin is accusing a Gryffindor of being fearful.

“He said to be careful of professors,” one of the new first years speaks up abruptly. “To look at what they say critically, and to never end up alone with them if we could help it. That doesn’t sound like being scared, that sounds like being sensible.”

It’s a bit of bad luck that has them speaking at just the right time, and at just the right pitch, to be heard despite being down at the end of the table. Malfoy’s head swivels around in a motion astoundingly reminiscent of a crane diving for a fish, and the first year flushes.

“Why should you care for what Potter has to say, Boyle?” Malfoy hisses.

“He said we could come to him if anyone was bullying us,” Astoria speaks up. Daphne isn’t as surprised as she should be— Astoria’s had it out for Malfoy since the incident at the Malfoys’ summer ball back in 1992. She’s generally got a good head on her shoulders, but when it comes to grudges, her vindictiveness tends to win out over her sense. “And when he was talking about bullies,” Astoria adds coolly, “he was looking at you.”

Daphne gives her younger sister a stern look. Although Astoria bows her head like she’s feeling properly chastised, Daphne can see the unrepentant gleam in her dark eyes. Daphne’s lips twist but try as she might, it’s with fondness and not irritation.

Malfoy stares at Astoria for a long moment, during which Daphne tries not to noticeably finger her wand, and then he snorts softly and returns to his breakfast. Daphne lets out an inaudible sigh of relief and turns to raise her eyebrows ever so slightly at Blaise. He angles his head toward the door; she smiles, and they both rise.

A moment later, they’re standing in another alcove soaked in anti-eavesdropping charms, this one off the corridor right in front of the Great Hall.

“I think we should sit with him during classes. You saw how quiet he was during breakfast— there’s no way we’ll learn anything about him just by asking. Unless, apparently,” Daphne mutters a little bitterly, “we shrink back down into first years.”

Blaise nods, his lips twitching. “I agree completely. Not just because it’ll be easier to learn through observation than interrogation, but because he has a way of disappearing.” Blaise’s mouth is strangely tight, like he’s trying not to grin. “No one knows how he got into the Common Room last night— the prefects swear none of them told him the password, and no one saw him enter, but he was in his bed before Malfoy and I arrived in our dorm room.”

Daphne’s eyebrows raise; Blaise finally gives in and smiles over at her. “Classes are the only time he’s guaranteed not to just… slip away,” he tells her.

Daphne nods. They can hear students exiting the Great Hall; it’s easy enough to slip out of the alcove and fold back into the crowd. When they enter the Charms classroom, it’s among the rest of the Slytherins from their year.

Potter’s already seated in the Charms classroom; he’s just finished putting away a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages when Daphne sits down to his right. Meanwhile, Blaise settles into the seat in front of him— Potter’s tucked himself away in the back right corner of the room, so there’s nowhere else to sit.

Potter’s eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes are wide behind his battered glasses. Daphne absently notes that if she does end up investing in Potter, she’ll need to teach him to conceal his emotions better.

After a moment, Potter turns his gaze back to Professor Flitwick, and Daphne breaths out an inaudible sigh of relief. She’s certain if Potter had made a fuss, Professor Flitwick would have taken his side.

Daphne’s normally a diligent student, but just this once, she completely tunes out what Professor Flitwick has to say in favor of watching Potter intently. He’s clearly practiced the Summoning Charm before; his wand movements have the smoothness that only comes with muscle memory, and the way the chalk he’s Summoning immediately flies over speaks to experience.

The second time Potter Summons the chalk, Daphne doesn’t hear him speak. At first, Daphne thinks she’s just missed the incantation, but when she glances over at Blaise, he gives her a little nod of confirmation instead— Potter really is practicing wordless magic.

When Daphne turns back to Potter, it’s to see him sheathing his wand. Daphne watches incredulously as he makes like he’s going to try to Summon wandlessly. He’s halfway through the wand movement when he stops— he’s realized how difficult it is, Daphne assumes. Except he isn’t drawing his wand again— instead, he’s unstrapping his sheath and drawing a containment rune on the leather.

Fuck. Against all odds, Blaise might be right about those blood wards. Might.

Potter waves his hand in something that’s similar, but not exactly the same as the half-circle wand motion that’s used for the summoning charm. Potter’s hand movement is shorter, tighter— a sharp, commanding twist of his wrist. It shouldn’t work, the technique’s not quite right and with wandless magic already as difficult as it is— but the chalk is inching slowly closer. It’s a little more than halfway across the room when it suddenly drops.

Potter’s only concession to fatigue is an almost inaudible sigh, and that could just be frustration at his failure. A split second later he’s straightening back up again, twisting his wrist again, Summoning the chalk again. This time, it doesn’t fall.

Daphne glances at Blaise. She knows her eyes are wide but she can’t help it. Blaise just smiles smugly back.

Daphne barely even remembers to note down the homework Professor Flitwick assigns. When the other students start leaving, she and Blaise both linger, waiting for Potter. Daphne still isn’t entirely sure about Blaise’s blood warding claim, but she has to admit it’s not entirely improbable, considering what she just saw Potter doing. Either way, there’s no way she’s letting him slip off without a bit more investigation.

Potter’s moving a bit more slowly than before, but his keen eyes are lit with a hard, sharp brightness as he watches them. He doesn’t say anything as they fall in at his side, but there’s a wrinkle of confusion at his brow the whole way to Potions, and when they settle in the pair of seats behind him, his wiry shoulders go taut.

“Are they— are they bothering you?” Longbottom asks. Longbottom’s always been a shy, hesitant boy, but now there’s an almost imperceptible undercurrent of steel beneath his stutter, and when he glances back at them, his face is set in an unyielding expression that suits his face far better than it should. Between this and Johnson, Daphne is reluctantly impressed at how protective Potter’s friends are.

“It’s fine,” Potter answers. He relaxes his shoulders like he’s trying to demonstrate that it really is fine, but that just makes Longbottom’s eyes narrow. As Potter picks out the ingredients for their potion, Longbottom turns around and gives both of them a warning glare. Again, it’s far more intimidating than it should be. Since when did Longbottom have a spine?

Daphne can only skive off in so many classes in a day before she goes mad, so she ends up focusing entirely on her and Blaise’s potion. It’s a good thing, too— Blaise is too busy watching Potter’s every move, listening to Potter’s every word, to do much more than chop ingredients for her. At one point he almost knocks the vial of infusion of salamander slime into their potion because he gets so distracted listening to Potter explain basic knife safety to Longbottom— or maybe it was the way Potter tried to make Longbottom feel better about his mistakes by showing him the numerous short, raised scars on his own fingertips.

By the time the class period is over, Daphne understands why Professor Snape has them pair up in class, and she’s decided that at least a little bit of the debt she owes Blaise for tipping her off to the truth about Potter has been paid. Still, as difficult as working alone was, she feels vindicated by the fact that her potion is still perfect— unlike Potter’s, which is more turquoise than cerulean, and has a slightly mealy texture to it. It’s a little bit amusing that Potter, Boy-Who-Lived and apparent student of wandless magic and blood warding, is significantly worse at Potions than her.

Daphne is more surprised than she should be when Potter pulls them aside to talk after class. He’s a Gryffindor— of course he’s going to confront them openly. Blaise turns the little interrogation back on Potter at once, of course— or at least, he tries to. Daphne falls back a little, lets Blaise take the lead in this. Let him see just what it’s like trying to get Potter to talk— that is to say, startlingly similar to attempting to make bread from air.

Except now Potter is smiling a strange, light smile, the kind of smile that suggests he knows something that everyone else can only guess at, and he’s good as confirming that there are blood wards on his bed.

A moment later, while Daphne is still trying to stretch her worldview to encompass a Potter who uses blood magic, Potter reveals that he’s been using Parseltongue instead of a password to get into the Common Room. Daphne had honestly forgotten about that ability of his— had forgotten the months in second year where even the Slytherins half-believed Potter was the Heir. Maybe the Hat’s whole unity schtick wasn’t the only reason Potter ended up in Slytherin— no matter how Gryffindor Potter may be, there’s something distinctly wrong about the idea of a Parselmouth who isn’t in Slytherin.

“So you, what, like to have your theories proven right? You’re… curious… about me?” Potter seems genuinely confused— it’s like he has no idea of the kind of political weight he has.

“You do have a rather unique life,” Blaise answers in a laughing voice, and then falls quiet, waiting for Potter’s verdict.

Daphne waits, stomach heavy with a mixture of dread and resignation, for Potter to scoff and tell them to leave him alone. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs and lays down terms— very lenient terms, at that. All he asks is that they partner up with him in class and avoid sitting behind him.

And then he heads off to lunch like nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all.

Blaise smirks at Daphne, gloating about how he told her so, and the worst part is that he did.

“Don’t be uncouth,” Daphne scolds half-heartedly. She’s already trying to think of more ways to repay her debt.

They stand in silence for a moment, Blaise just smiling smugly to himself, and then Daphne says to herself, “blood warding, huh.”

“Blood warding and wandless magic.” Blaise flashes one of his rare, gleaming white grins. “I wonder what else he may be studying?”

For some reason, that’s what makes it truly hit Daphne. Harry Potter’s studying more than he’s letting on— he’s preparing for the Dark Lord’s inevitable rise— he’s looking into Dark Magic— he’s willing to work with Slytherins— for a moment, Daphne can sketch out a vague, glittering future, one where the opposition to the Dark Lord is strong enough to stand half a chance, one where Slytherins can shelter behind someone strong and fair, one where she and her sister won’t inevitably end up living beneath the iron fist of a megalomaniac.

“This is the first time since the end of the Tournament—” since the Dark’s Lord resurrection “—that I thought maybe— that maybe…” she whispers.

“I know. I feel the same way,” Blaise answers. He gives her that little smile they share sometimes when Malfoy is demanding ridiculous things that neither of them can refuse because they may not like him or agree with his politics but they don’t have enough power to truly stand apart from him and his ilk.

Irritation flashes in Daphne like a light dashing off a mirror. “You could leave,” Daphne points out sharply. Blaise has dual citizenship, both Italian and British. People act like he’s neutral, but the truth is that he’s just isolated enough from British politics that he doesn’t have a stake in most of their conflicts.

“Could I have?” He raises an eyebrow, and Daphne abruptly remembers that Blaise’s mother is sentenced to indefinite house arrest in Wales. How uncouth of her, she thinks with a rush of hot shame, to suggest that he would ever abandon his family.

Blaise smiles down at her, and Daphne knows she’s forgiven. “Come on, let’s go get lunch.” Daphne nods back, smiling a little bit tremulously.

Daphne is almost glad Potter partners up with Goldstein during Herbology; she needs a little time to recalibrate her view of him. It’ll be hard, long work, stripping away all of her assumptions and opening her eyes to see the truth of who he is, but she knows it’ll be rewarding.

Even so, when Herbology finally ends Blaise has to grab her wrist to keep her from striding off to search every nook and cranny in the castle to see where Potter’s gone off to— now that Daphne’s found someone who might be able to protect her family, she doesn’t want to let him slip between her fingers.

Blaise manages to persuade her that chasing Potter down will just make him even more withdrawn, and the best thing to do is to let him come to them. Instead of searching him out, they wait patiently in the Common Room. Blaise reads a book in Italian, and Daphne steadily works her way through her homework and tries not to worry that Potter will somehow get himself killed before she sees him next.

Potter reappears just in time to leave for Astronomy. His hair is rumpled, but he looks a little bit more rested than he had earlier, and his eyes are just as keen as always— and they are keen, that’s something Daphne keeps on noticing over and over again, that he might be a Gryffindor but his eyes are sharp. Daphne does her best to ignore the way the other Slytherins stare as she and Blaise fall in at either side of him. They might scoff behind her back now, but soon they’ll be jealous of her and Blaise’s foresight.

Daphne’s burbling with questions the whole walk there— how long has Potter been practicing wandless magic? Where did he learn how to lay blood wards? She wants to know all of his plans, wants to fix his weaknesses and bolster his strengths. She wants to see him strong enough to make that glittering vision from earlier hard reality.

Potter brushes her off, snuffs out her excitement like fingers closing over a flame, but it’s really for the best. She’s a Slytherin— it doesn’t do to be impulsive. If she’s clumsy enough that her parents end up finding out she’s flirting with the idea of allying with Potter— her stomach twists.

Potter is only a little bit better at Astronomy than he is at Potions, although part of it could be the strange problem he seems to be having with his hands. As he fidgets with the littlest knob on his telescope, his fingers move seemingly without direction— his grip goes too-tight all at once, and then his fingers extend so abruptly that they knock against metal in a way that has to be painful. Even when his fingers betray him for the third time, Potter doesn’t look annoyed so much as resigned; he just gives up and starts looking into the telescope without adjusting the knobs any further.

Daphne has to wonder about that, but then class starts and her mind turns to finding Neptune. For a little while, Daphne is caught up in a haze of schoolwork— at least until Malfoy comments on Potter’s shaky hands.

Malfoy’s pulling out all the stops, but Potter is… expressionless. Isn’t Potter supposed to be known for his temper? Daphne doesn’t even think it’s that he’s trying to hide his annoyance to spite Malfoy: she’d be able to tell if he was, Potter’s awful at hiding his emotions. It’s like he just… genuinely doesn’t care.

Malfoy’s devolved to imitating the way Potter’s hands shake when Potter finally responds.

His voice is mild, like he’s commenting on the weather or something equally mundane, but what he says is anything but. Cruciatus after-effects. His hands are shaking because of Cruciatus after-effects. Daphne can feel her stomach spasm, and bile creeps up the back of her throat.

She may have known, intellectually, that Potter had faced the Dark Lord during his resurrection, but overhearing a rumor and seeing his hands shudder and contract with lingering damage from the Cruciatus Curse are two very, very different things.

The worst thing might be how calm he is about it. It would have been easier if he’d spit the truth, snarled it, lashed out like some wounded animal or offended Gryffindor— if he had acted like this is tearing him apart, like it’s ripping the sheltered world Dumbledore’s created for him to shreds. Instead, it’s as though this is nothing more or less than he expects. Like pain and suffering are as natural, as routine to him as homework and lectures are to Daphne.

Suddenly, viscerally, Daphne remembers the time she found a house elf’s skeleton while digging for bulbs. The bones had been light and smooth and white, and they must have laid there in the earth beneath the garden for years and years and years, must have been there every time she’d gathered flowers for a bouquet as a little girl.

Finding those bones had been like flipping a smooth, clean stone and seeing the worms writhing beneath it, except with her view of the world. For a long time, she’d thought that had been it, that in the wake of that she knew the darkness of the world, but this is making her realize that there is always another, larger stone left unturned. Potter, she thinks, has been going around turning every stone he finds.

The rest of Astronomy passes in silence. The other Slytherins are stunned into pasty-faced silence, whereas Potter keeps on acting like it’s just any other class. That evening in the common room, Daphne can hear a few of them whispering to each other.

“—just because it’s Potter,” Bulstrode says. “You know how irritating Potter can be.” Unspoken: The Dark Lord won’t do that to us— as long as we’re careful.

“What about Diggory, then?” Davis asks lowly. “His blood was as pure as anyone’s.”

“Even the Inner Circle feels His Cruciatus when they disappoint Him,” Nott says. His eyes are distant, and his voice is quiet, but they all listen. Nott speaks rarely, and when he does have something to say, it’s always important. “And it’s impossible not to disappoint Him.”

The little group falls silent after that. For a while they linger, staring into the flames or the greenish depths of the Black Lake, and then, one by one, they peel off and head to bed. Daphne watches them go, lost in thought.

Potter gets a delivery at breakfast the next morning. His snowy owl lays it down at the seat between her and Blaise and then settles on Blaise’s shoulder. Daphne feels a sort of smug satisfaction bubbling up in her at the way Potter’s owl clearly recognizes the spot between her and Blaise as his rightful seat, and Blaise is evidently gaining a similar sort of satisfaction from the way Potter’s owl is perched trustingly on his shoulder.

Daphne can’t quite make out the crest on the envelope’s seal, and Potter’s moving the letter around too much for her to read the contents, but she can learn a lot just from observations. The letter is written in looping cursive— the writer is a wellbred pureblood from a family of reasonable standing, and, judging by how unsurprised Potter is by the whole thing, they’ve corresponded before.

Is this the same person who taught Potter blood warding? Who’s encouraged him to learn wandless magic? Daphne can feel her heartbeat pick up a little at the thought. If Potter already has a Dark mentor… she has to forcibly clamp down her excitement. She doesn’t want to set herself up for disappointment.

Whoever Potter’s mysterious pen pal is, they’ve also sent him a scarf— a Slytherin scarf. And Potter is willing to wear it! Malfoy is staring incredulously, and Daphne can feel the smug delight emanating from Blaise in waves. A glance reveals that more than a few of the upperclassmen are watching thoughtfully as well.

Daphne is relieved to find that class today doesn’t end up going the same way as Astronomy did— although there is an incident in Transfiguration where, despite all of Professor McGonagall’s best efforts, Potter refuses to act at all concerned about his future. By the end of it, Daphne wants to grab his shoulders and shake him until he stops being so lazy.

She feels that impulse again, even more powerfully, when she realizes that Potter is planning to actually skip class. At least, she feels that way until Potter replies to her polite nudge to go to class, Potter, you need to be competent if I’m ever going to ally with you.

“I was in the Triwizard Tournament last year,” he says lightly. “A tournament that’s killed wizards older and more experienced than me. As McGonagall put it, she’d rather have me be alive with a T in Divination than dead with a perfect attendance record.” And then he smiles. Daphne is starting to dread Potter’s smiles, because he never smiles at normal things, like the failures of his enemies or Blaise doing something dumb— instead, his smiles herald awful, disturbing things stated like they’re normal, or Potter stonewalling whoever’s trying to talk to him with blank looks and an impassive silence.

She’ll learn soon that those smiles can herald violence, too.

Daphne’s hurrying back to the Common Room when it starts. Blaise has managed to get Potter to agree to go through with a proper tour of Slytherin— the kind he should have gotten that first night— which means he’s currently sitting in the Common Room waiting, which means the situation is ripe for trouble.

As such, she’s not as surprised as she should be when she and Blaise enter the Common Room just in time to hear Malfoy challenge Potter to a duel. Potter sits up a little bit straighter in his seat, and he smiles. Daphne shudders.

Potter’s still smiling a little to himself as he agrees to the duel, as the room reorganizes itself, as everyone settles against the wall to watch. He keeps on smiling even as Malfoy hurls hex after hex at him, steadily gaining on him.

Anxiety clings bitter and filmy to the back of Daphne’s throat as she watches Potter just stand there. If he loses this duel, there’s no way anyone from Slytherin will ever support him, no way she can ever actually ally with him. With every step Malfoy takes closer to Potter, her stomach clenches even further.

—and then Potter is dropping, and at first Daphne thinks he’s been hit by a spell, but then he’s doing something with his leg that she doesn’t understand and rising, Malfoy’s wand in hand. Daphne’s staring like some plebian, but it’s okay because everyone is. She’s never seen anything even remotely like that before. Just who taught Potter how to duel?

Malfoy’s protesting the validity of the duel, and Daphne thought Potter’s smile was bad but it has nothing on the way he laughs as he listens to Malfoy’s whining. Blaise laughs, too, and then Potter is glancing over, exchanging nods with both of them, and some of the upperclassmen are looking at them but it’s alright because they’re going to see the truth about Potter soon, Daphne just knows it.

The second duel is about to start when suddenly Potter’s smile drops and he’s asking about boundary wards, burning an anchor line in the floor, creating nexuses out of stones he Summons from the wall— wordlessly. Whatever ward he’s using, it’s not one Daphne’s ever seen before— although to be fair, she hasn’t seen very many wards being laid down.

Warding is a big enough drain on magic that most wizards only really use them for permanent structures, like houses or classrooms. She’d heard that Aurors and professional duelists use boundary wards during duels because the power of their spells means it could be seriously dangerous if bystanders get hit, but even at the handful of dueling contests Daphne’d been to, they just activated already-laid wards. The fact that Potter’s laying down a boundary ward for a duel between two fifth years is— ridiculous.

Daphne doesn’t think anyone else recognizes the ward, either. Sorsen Bishop steps forward to test the ward and— it doesn’t just absorb magic, it somehow deflects it harmlessly. Absorption wards are night-ubiquitous because they can be fueled partially through the magic they absorb, and because deflection wards have the major flaw of sending spells ricocheting around dangerously. A major flaw that somehow, this ward has entirely bypassed.

Daphne can hear a couple of seventh years trying to piece together the incantation Potter used like they want to reverse engineer the whole scheme, and honestly, Daphne can’t blame them. Ancient Runes has never been her favorite subject and she has only a rudimentary knowledge of wards, but even she would like to ask whoever designed this ward a few questions about how on Earth he did it.

(There’s also the fact that this is in Hogwarts. Daphne hadn’t even realized you could lay new wards within the bounds of Hogwarts— Daphne cuts that train of thought because she can only deal with so much, and Potter’s already started doing a whole new set of new impossible things in his duel with Malfoy.)

Watching Potter duel is something else. The way he uses his magic to influence his surroundings to his advantage— dispersing his weight into the ground as he makes landfall, turning the ground soft and sticky beneath Malfoy’s feet— is very reminiscent of the Merlinnic school of dueling. At the same time, the way he moves— quick, efficient, without even a hint of wasted energy— is textbook Auror. And there’s also something else there that’s entirely unique— the inventive usage of household charms, the way he chooses to dodge even though he still has enough time and magic to draw up a shield instead, and that’s not even including the attitude he takes toward dueling itself.

“The person who wins the duel isn’t the smartest person, it’s the one who comes out alive,” he says. The spinning silver blade Malfoy sent his way grazes his cheek before slamming into the tapestry behind him, but he doesn’t seem to even notice. “Assuming that the smartest person will win is idiotic and encourages complacency, which is dangerous.”

That sounds like something a soldier would say, Daphne thinks blankly. Like the kind of thing a veteran from the war with Grindelwald would explain, eyes distant as they recall the battlefields of the continent.

Daphne tunes back in to hear Potter saying, voice like a knife’s edge, “Your father and I disagree on far more fundamental matters than the purpose of dueling. No surprise, considering the last place I saw him.”

Daphne’s heart stops in her chest. None of them— none of them— talk about that, even in private, quiet times; if they ignore it, it almost seems like a half-remembered nightmare and not cold reality. To hear Potter bring it up is— startling.

Potter laughs at their shock— laughs, Daphne thinks, at the idea that he could ever just ignore this. The coming war is something that skirts at the edge of their lives like a coming storm, whereas Potter is already in the thick of it. He’s under no illusions about the reality of what’s coming— what’s already here.

Potter circles closer to Malfoy, talking about basilisks and dark artifacts and Lord Malfoy. It’s as though he’s wielding a burning blade; every sentence blazes with unswerving, merciless truth, slicing through the gauze and veil of their ignorance like it’s nothing more than pre-dawn mist.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s true,” Potter says. And he’s right. The world he reveals is not a pleasant one— a basilisk at Hogwarts?— but Daphne can feel, deep in her bones, that it is the world that they live in.

“—in second year, after I killed the same basilisk he was fool enough to let loose, you father almost murdered me two fucking feet from Dumbledore’s office.”

...maybe there’s such a thing as too much truth. There’s so much wrong with that sentence that Daphne doesn’t even know where to begin. If what he said earlier had made Daphne feel like Potter was wielding a sword of fire, then now Daphne feels like she’s staring into the sun— like she’s looking at something bright and hot and beyond her that all her eyes can see is a pure clean void of white fire. She feels like she needs to sit down, and she’s already sitting down.

Part of what Daphne is feeling comes from Potter’s magic, which has steadily grown until it hangs so thick and heady in the air around them that she thinks even those who aren't half so magic-sensitive as her must have an inkling of its presence. It smells of iron and the moment before a fire sparks to life, and burns hot and fierce around them, stark and searing as the purest flame. Daphne has never felt anything quite like it.

“...father almost k—killed you?” Malfoy stutters out. Daphne knows what he’s really asking— will you take your due from me with blood and fire, will you reap what my father has sowed, will I pay my family’s debt. Potter could strike Malfoy down where he stands, and be well within his honor while doing it. Nor would Potter get any real consequences from Dumbledore, either— he needs Potter for the coming war far too much to ever give him more than a slap on the wrist, even for killing a fellow student. And with Potter’s magic filling the air with the hungry heat of a firestorm, it’s not hard to believe that he will.

But instead, Potter sighs. “That doesn’t make him special,” he says, which is so incomprehensible that for a moment Daphne’s mind goes completely blank. As Daphne watches disbelievingly, Potter lifts Malfoy’s wand from loose, unresisting fingers. His voice is impossibly gentle as he says, “Everyone almost murders me.”

No one can mistake that for anything but mercy.

The blazing fire of Potter’s magic begins banking into something more gentle, more contained. It seems like he’s trying to fold himself back into something ordinary, something easily overlooked, but he can’t take back what they’ve seen. Now that they’ve watched him dueling, it’s impossible not to notice how graceful his movements are, how he’s simultaneously calm and alert, how his eyes are always keen and bright.

Potter steps over the charred black line he’s left in the floor and kneels to reassure one of the first years, his tone and mannerisms impossibly mild considering the sheer inferno his magic had been just moments before.

“No one’s managed to kill me yet,” Potter tells the first year, quietly and starkly fearless. Not too long ago, that kind of attitude would have made Daphne sneer, but at this point, she finds herself almost admiring it. Potter has the skill to back up his fearlessness, and there’s something about it— about the way he cuts through the kind of barriers that would make others pause without seeming to even notice them— that’s oddly appealing.

“I have no intention of dying,” Potter adds with another one of those smiles of his. Daphne thinks of the wards he laid down with blood and fire, the scythe of pure magic he wielded against Malfoy, the steely straightness his posture gets sometimes, and— Potter’s going to fight the Dark Lord every step of the way, isn’t he? He’s going to make every bit of progress like pulling teeth, going to taint each victory with a loss, going to endure on just to spite Him.

He might lose. He— he might not, as incredible as a thought as it is. But either way, Potter is going to put up one hell of a fight.

Potter turns back to the first year and that hard, bright smile softens into something so kind it almost hurts to look at. Several things flash through Daphne’s mind— Astoria, saying that Potter had promised to protect all of the younger Slytherins— Potter laying down boundary wards, You’re not planning on setting up boundary wards to protect all of these bystanders? Are you just that negligent or do you genuinely not give a shit about collateral damage?— how gentle Potter’s voice was when he spoke to Malfoy, how he spared Malfoy even though Malfoy has tormented him for years, even though Malfoy’s father tried to kill him—

Daphne’s going to follow him.

It isn’t even so much a decision as a realization. She might fight it, might fear her parents’ reaction, but it’s simply inevitable, because she can’t not follow Potter. He’s vicious, ruthless even, the sort of person that could cut through his enemies like a knife through hot butter, a wildfire packed into a human body— but he’s also fair, and more than that, kind. Merciful, and protective, and kind.

The thought of choosing to side with him over the Dark Lord is terrifying, but she knows that if she lets fear control her, she’ll regret it for the rest of her life. She’s no Gryffindor, but that doesn’t mean she’s a coward, either— and maybe, just maybe, she wants to have a taste of what being fearless feels like.

“Ah,” Potter starts hesitantly. Blood is oozing down the side of his face from where Malfoy’s silver blade grazed him, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Are you alright, Greengrass?”

All of the adrenaline and insanity of the past half-hour bursts out of Daphne in hysterical laughter, and a moment later everyone around her is joining in. When they’ve regained a bit of composure, Blaise gently manhandles Potter back into a sitting position and Transfigures a bandage out of a handkerchief, which almost sends Daphne into another fit of laughter. Blaise could easily heal that cut, but he wants the Slytherins to remember this duel every time they look at Potter, wants to rub just how right he was into all of their faces. How typical of him.

Blaise has just finished attaching the bandage in such a way that it’s impossible to miss when Sorsen Bishop steps forward. Potter’s fingers go still where they’re sitting on the first year’s shoulder, and for a moment Daphne worries, but then Potter relaxes a little and confesses sheepishly, “Before you ask, I don’t know how to repair the floor.”

Daphne abruptly remembers how Potter’s potion had turned out mealy and off-color even with Blaise keeping him from making any major mistakes, the way he kept on mixing up constellations during Astronomy, how he can't conceal his emotions to save his life, and she wants to laugh again. Potter's still human, she thinks with a hint of relief. A dueling prodigy with some of the headiest magic she's ever felt, but still human.

“—be willing to leave the boundary ward standing?” Bishop is asking. He’s concealing his disappointment well, but Daphne’s not an idiot. If he has his way, the NEWT Runes students are going to be examining it the moment Potter goes to bed tonight.

Potter’s face twists with confusion. “Do you… want me to?”

“—yes?” Bishop answers, sounding vaguely strangled. Daphne can relate. Does Potter usually put up new boundary wards each time he duels?

“Having a ward like that could be useful for duels in the future,” Bishop explains in a strained voice. “It would prevent collateral damage even when the duellers can’t raise wards of their own.”

‘Collateral damage’ seems to do the trick because Potter nods. “Yeah, sure, if you think that it would be useful. I just didn’t want to leave the floor all messed up.”

The first year whose shoulder Potter has been patting buries his face into Potter’s side and starts laughing into his stomach. Potter ruffles the first year’s hair absently, and the firstie stops laughing just so he can send a smug look at his year mates. Daphne is just as eager to follow Potter as anyone, but she has to wonder if she should be worried about how fanatical the first years are.

Neither she nor Blaise are really in the right state of mind to give a tour, so they just settle down on the couch on either side of Potter. His magic is still more active than usual in the wake of the duel, and sitting this close to him, Daphne just has to focus a little to feel it in the air like the touch of sunlight. It's centered around the first year whose hair Potter is still absently running his fingers through; with the way all that warm magic is all nestled up around him, the kid probably feels like he's soaking in a puddle of sunlight. Potter really has a soft spot for children, Daphne thinks fondly to herself.

Daphne knows she'll have a lot of hard work ahead of her, but for the moment, she joins the first year in luxuriating in the warm magic of the one she's going to follow.

At first, in the immediate wake of the duel, Harry doesn’t plan on sleeping that night. After all, he got a good bit of sleep before Astronomy the day before yesterday, and he still needs to use that cryptography spell Kreacher told him about to protect his notebook against nosy Slytherins. But as the adrenaline washes out of him, Harry’s energy flags, his eyelids drooping and his vision going dark around the edges, and it’s all he can do to get up to the safety of his warded bed before passing out.

Waking up again is like walking through molasses; sleep still clings to him, threatening to pull him under once more. When Harry rolls out of bed, it’s more driven by willpower and muscle memory than anything else, and he’s halfway to his broom before he notices that Zabini and Malfoy are very much awake and, he notes with a sort of resigned irritation, staring. Harry must have slept in.

He lets his hand fall from where he was about to clasp the handle of his Firebolt and instead lays it flat against the top of his trunk. “Jamesss and Lily,” he murmurs. In his peripheral vision, Malfoy’s gone still, but Harry is far too tired to even think about that, so he just grabs a clean uniform and the Slytherin scarf Kreacher sent him and heads for the bathroom.

It’s a struggle not to fall asleep in the shower, even after Harry spins the knob until the water goes ice-cold. Once he’s clean, Harry steps out and gets dressed, allowing himself a moment to luxuriate in how soft his new scarf is. His regular clothes are all oversized and worn into a thin, rough state by age and use, and his school clothes, as much as he appreciates them, aren’t exactly anything special. Between its softness and its vivid, jewel-tone colors, this scarf is easily the nicest item of clothing Harry owns besides his Invisibility Cloak.

It’s also blissfully, blessedly warm, which is a boon seeing as Harry is feeling decidedly cold. He’s always felt the chill more than anyone around him— probably because of the years of malnutrition that have left him perpetually skinny— but for some reason, it’s especially bad this morning. It feels as though some sort of inner warmth within him is extinguished, leaving him cold down to his very core. In the light of this, every little breeze and draft creeping through the damp, chilly dungeons is that much worse.

Sighing, Harry tucks his scarf a little bit closer around his neck and steps over to the mirror to check if it’s hanging right— only to reel back in alarm. There have been purplish circles under his eyes for a while now, but now they’ve bruise-dark, the color of overripe plums just on the edge of rotting. It almost looks like he has two black eyes. Beneath that almost violent slash of color, his skin is the color of skim milk— paler than anything, almost bluish in the pale lighting of the bathroom. Add in the bandage on his cheek, and Harry looks truly ghastly.

Grimacing, Harry raises his wand to cast a glamour, but just like when he casts wandless magic he hasn’t quite mastered yet, he can feel his magic catching, fruitlessly sparking like a lighter that’s been left out in the rain overnight. Panic blooms in Harry’s chest like ink bleeding through water— how’s he going to defend himself if his magic isn’t working, where did it go, is it gone forever— but he forces himself to draw in a long, slow breath. This has happened to him before; it’s just magical exhaustion. He'll recover with time.

Even so, the thought of being defenseless grates on him. Harry looks through the cabinets, but he can’t find anything suitable, only expensive, overly fancy toiletries that are more likely to beautify his enemies than terrify them. He’ll have to head back into the dormitory and find something there. After a moment to gather his courage, Harry heads back out.

Ignoring the gazes of Malfoy and Zabini, Harry opens up his trunk again and retrieves his penknife. It’s pathetically short, and it’s built for sharpening quills and not stabbing, slicing, or otherwise scrapping with Slytherins, but it’s still better than nothing. Harry doesn’t have any sort of holster for it, so he just tucks it into his pocket.

Harry’s gotten so used to Zabini falling in at his side that he doesn’t even twitch as they match strides. Malfoy doing it, however, is something else entirely. Harry stops dead in his tracks and stares at Malfoy until he goes pink and lets their steps fall out of sync. The whole thing is enough to make Harry suspect Malfoy whacked his head on something during the duel and has some sort of concussion— perhaps the sort that could be resolved with a new, different knock to the head, possibly by way of Harry’s fist.

Even if he’s no longer walking beside Harry, Malfoy’s still lingering weirdly close. As they enter the common room, he speaks up. “Potter,” he says, “In the wake of your magnanimity, my own actions over the years are especially reprehensible. I sincerely apologize—”

“Don’t.”

Malfoy trips over his own feet and has to catch himself on the back of one of the couches. Harry notes with a flash of amusement that Zabini is close enough he could have easily helped Malfoy if he wanted to. “D—don’t?”

“Don’t,” Harry confirms a little more harshly. He turns to face Malfoy. “You don’t really regret your behavior, or else you would have changed it long ago. No, what you regret is directing that behavior to someone who you now realize can make life difficult for you.”

Harry cants his head, examining how pale Malfoy is, the taut lines of his body, the way he keeps straightening his clothing. Harry’s never thought of himself as anything to be afraid of, but he supposes Malfoy’s coward enough that it hardly matters. “So no,” Harry concludes. “Don’t apologize just because you’re scared.”

Malfoy swallows. “Is there any way that you will accept an apology from me?”

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs. “I don’t have time for childish grudges, but I also don’t have time to force you to grow. If you mature enough that you understand what’s wrong with your behavior— and change it— maybe I’ll accept your apology.” Harry’s lips twist. “Maybe.”

Malfoy’s mouth is bunched up tightly, and it looks like he wants to angrily spit out some sneering response, but he jerks out a nod. When he heads over to sit down with Crabbe and Goyle, he’s nearly stomping.

Happy to have that mess over with, Harry makes eye contact with Greengrass and tilts his head towards the door. Greengrass rises and falls in on the other side of Harry, and the three of them head out to the Great Hall. Both Zabini and Greengrass have enough sense to not try to force Harry into conversation on the way there.

As they enter the Great Hall, Hermione straightens up from where she’d been bent over a book. Her eyes widen as she sees Harry, and then she’s picking up her things and hurrying over to inspect Harry’s face with keen eyes and gentle, probing fingers. “You’re not wearing that scarf to cover strangle marks, right?” she asks suspiciously.

Harry obligingly unwinds his scarf, letting Hermione peer at the pale, unblemished skin hidden beneath. “I’m just cold,” he explains as he wraps himself back up again. Hermione lets out a slow sigh of relief, her eyes fluttering shut, and then she’s scowling as she gives him a gentle whack on the arm with her book. “Two days since term started!” she cries. “Two days, and you’ve somehow already gotten into trouble!”

Has it really only been two days? It feels like Harry’s already been stuck in Slytherin for, at minimum, a very long week or two. He supposes the way he’s so tense is to blame for that. It’s hard to let time pass by in an easy blur when you’re spending every second on high alert. How little sleep he’s been getting probably doesn’t help, either; spending more hours awake feels like more time is passing.

“Hey,” Harry points out, “I could have been locked out of Platform Nine and Three Quarters again. Or attacked over the—” Harry pauses as he remembers the Dementors. “Or attacked over the summer, twice.”

“What happened, anyway?” Hermione asks. Now that she’s assured herself that Harry’s alright, Harry can see her eyeing Zabini and Greengrass warily as she registers their presence. She glances back at Harry, one eyebrow raised. Harry knows that she’s asking, do you need me to get rid of them for you?

He shakes his head. “Hermione, this is Blaise Zabini,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Zabini. “And this is Daphne Greengrass.” He waves his hand in her general direction. “Both of you, this is Hermione Granger.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione replies in a tone of brisk, stiff formality that tells him just how uncomfortable she is, and then turns to Harry. “Stop deflecting. What happened to you?”

“Er,” Harry starts. He is so not in the mood for this. “Honestly, it wasn’t—“

“He dueled Malfoy,” Zabini cuts in. Harry shoots him a look of deep betrayal.

Hermione spins on her heel. “Harry!”

“Don’t look at me,” Harry says. “I wasn’t the one who initiated it— or demanded a second duel after the first one.” He rolls his eyes and adjusts his school bag, trying to make the weight hang more easily. His shoulders are aching already, and he’s tired enough that he keeps on having to lock his knees to prevent himself from trembling or worse, outright collapsing.

Hermione must see some of that in his body language because her eyes soften. “Come on, you should sit down.” She turns to move back to the Gryffindor table. Harry is about to follow when Blaise speaks up. “He’s a Slytherin now,” he says, sounding almost like he's savoring the words— like he's somehow smug about it. “He should sit at the Slytherin table.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “I’m not leaving him alone with a bunch of Slytherins when he’s like this.” Harry would bristle at that— he has a penknife! It’s not like he’s completely useless!— but honestly, Hermione has a point. His knife is too short for anything but close-range attacks, and taking unnecessary risks just because of his pride would be idiotic.

“So come sit with him at the Slytherin table, then,” Zabini answers with an easy shrug.

As one, Greengrass, Hermione, and Harry all turn to stare at him. Zabini just looks back with a faint smile, like he hasn’t said anything out of the ordinary at all. After a moment Harry and Greengrass both look away, but Hermione and Zabini only peer at each other more fiercely.

The two of them would probably carry on their new staring contest for even longer, except that Harry’s legs suddenly give out beneath him and both of them have to rush forward to catch him. For a moment Zabini is a warm presence against his back, close enough that Harry can smell whatever cologne he uses— something sweet and musky and mild— and then Hermione's looping her arm through his, tugging him to his feet. Just this once, Harry lets himself lean on her shoulder. Hiding his weakness is a lost cause by this point, and now that Hermione is here, looking weak in front of the Slytherins is somehow nowhere near as nerve-racking as usual.

“What kind of spells have you been using, to tire you out like this?” Hermione asks, shifting Harry so he’s leaning on her a little more heavily. Despite all the fuss earlier, she's walking Harry towards the Slytherin table without a word of protest.

Harry shrugs. “I think it’s a combination of things, honestly.” He’d put up those wards on his bed the first night, and practiced all of those wandless summoning charms, and then there’d been the duel on top of everything else before he’d had time to recover properly.

“I imagine those wards you laid down yesterday have a lot to do with it,” Zabini says, nodding to Harry’s usual seat. Hermione slides into the spot next to Harry, the one where Greengrass usually sits. Looking faintly sour, Greengrass heads around the table to take the seat across from Harry.

Hermione’s eyes light up as she processes what Zabini just said. “Harry, do you mean to say that you put down wards in Hogwarts?”

“I would also like to—” a vaguely familiar voice starts. Harry really wants to put his head down on the table and take a nap, but instead, he forces himself to follow the voice to its source, which turns out to be the seventh year who’d tested the boundary wards the night before. He’s cut himself mid-sentence in favor of staring at Hermione— or more accurately, Hermione’s position at the Slytherin table— with an expression of faint disbelief.

Hermione flushes but stares defiantly back up at him, her chin set. Harry knows she’s waiting for the seventh year to lash out, to call her a mudblood and hex her. He knows because he’s waiting for the same thing; he knows it wouldn’t do any good, but his hand’s curled around the penknife in his pocket.

The seventh year gives himself a little shake and then turns his gaze back to Harry. “Those wards… they aren’t like any others that I’ve seen before. Would you mind answering a few questions about them?”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek, half from uncertainty and half to try to keep himself sharp even though he’s so tired. “If they’re not commonly known, they’re probably supposed to stay that way,” he says slowly. “I don’t think that the— I don’t think that the people who created them wanted that knowledge to be spread around.”

The seventh year is looking a lot like someone just spit in his soup, but he nods curtly.

“What kind of wards did you use?” Hermione asks Harry curiously. Some of the tension has seeped out of her, now that something’s piqued her curiosity.

Harry shrugs. “...boundary wards? I don’t know how wards work, I only know just enough to use them.” Harry can’t help but chuckle a little at the look of vague affront on the seventh year’s face.

“I can look at your notes later though, right?” Hermione asks. “It’s just that it’s so fascinating—”

Harry nods, cutting her explanation off. “Of course.” The seventh year is making a funny face; if Harry didn’t know better, he’d say that he was jealous. When he notices Harry watching, he gives himself a little shake and then heads back to his seat, still looking displeased in a haughty, pureblood sort of way.

“So,” Hermione says. “Other than warding, what else have you been studying?”

Harry shrugs again, then casts a mischievous glance at Greengrass. “Not History of Magic, that’s for sure.”

Hermione’s lip twitches with suppressed mirth. “I’m surprised Professor Snape is allowing you to continue that arrangement.”

“Oh no,” Harry responds sunnily, “I’m just taking advantage of him deciding to ignore me. It’s not as if Binns is going to call me on it, and Professor Trelawney will probably be too scared of getting another ‘talk’ from McGonagall to say anything about it."

The food starts to appear, and everyone begins serving themselves breakfast. Harry reaches for a nearby pot of coffee, hoping it’ll wake him up, but Hermione grabs his wrist. “At least get something to eat first,” she says. “You’re still far too thin.” Without even waiting for him to respond, she starts piling food onto his plate.

“Granger has a point,” Zabini agrees with a nod. “Food is one of the best ways to recover from magical exhaustion.” Harry sits a little straighter. This will help his magic come back quicker? He takes the full plate from Hermione and starts chewing his way through everything she’s served up at a steady clip, instinctively setting down his free arm so his plate is shielded from any grabbing hands.

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Greengrass says, looking faintly disgusted.

“No, he isn’t,” Hermione replies absently. “This happens every September, he’s got the whole thing down to a science by now.”

Greengrass and Zabini have both raised their eyebrows, and Harry sees some of the other Slytherins around them turning their heads. Goddamnit, Hermione. Harry scrambles around for a distraction.

“Do you think you could get me a book on knives?” he asks Hermione.

“...knives?” Hermione asks, her brow furrowed.

“Fighting with knives,” Harry clarifies. The Slytherins around him are looking at him like he just suggested bringing a fork to a gun fight. Do purebloods honestly think that wands are the only weapons worth a damn?

“Oh.” Hermione still looks a little confused, but she nods and starts tapping her lip thoughtfully. “I should probably be able to have my parents hunt a few books down for you.” She begins murmuring under her breath, already figuring out the logistics of buying muggle books while still at Hogwarts.

“Why… why a knife?” Greengrass asks, looking baffled.

Harry shrugs. It’s nice that wands are such versatile weapons, but... “it seems like common sense to have a backup, just in case.” Especially one that will work even when he’s too exhausted for wandless magic.

Greengrass opens her mouth like she wants to add something else, but then the windows in the upper reaches of the walls open up and owls start swooping in from above. There are fewer than there had been at breakfast that first day, but still more than there would be for the Gryffindors. Are Slytherin’s parents more overbearing than the other houses’, or something?

Harry can’t think about it too long, because Pigwidgeon’s dropping down from above, looking very small and frazzled and tired (Harry can relate). He plops an envelope on Harry’s head, then promptly flops down on the table next to a jug of orange juice. A moment later, Hedwig alights rather more elegantly next to Pigwidgeon, giving him a disdainful glance and then leaning over to steal some of Harry’s bacon.

“Is that from,” Hermione glances around at the Slytherins, several of whom are listening intently while pretending to be distracted with other things, “er—”

“I’ll bet it is,” Harry answers absently. “Probably wrote up a whole essay chewing me out for daring to get Sorted into Slytherin.” He tucks the letter away; there’s no way he’s reading it out here, not when it might reveal Sirius’ identity.

Hermione frowns, but she seems just as disinclined to talk about Sirius at the Slytherin table as Harry is, because she just shakes her head disapprovingly and piles a few more slices of bacon onto Harry’s plate to replace the ones Hedwig ate.

Meanwhile, a small, sleek bird alights on the edge of Zabini’s plate and sticks out one leg. As Harry watches, Zabini uses his long, elegant fingers to unknot something from the bird’s leg. He must realize Harry’s watching because he turns to Harry and opens his hand to reveal what he’s received: a tiny, stout bottle roughly as high as the first knuckle of Harry’s thumb is long. Inside is a luminescent seafoam-colored liquid that froths up into pearly fizz when Zabini gives it a little shake.

As Harry watches, Zabini pulls out his wand and taps the stopper gently. There’s a spray of sparks, and then the bottle is growing; when it stops, it’s roughly the length of Harry’s pinky. Blaise tucks away his wand and then pushes the bottle over to Harry.

“To be taken with breakfast on odd-numbered days,” he says.

Harry just blinks blankly. “What?” He glances at Hermione, asking for help with a pleading raise of his eyebrows.

She reaches past him and begins inspecting the bottle. “Intact magical seal— probably from an apothecary on the continent, judging by the use of a Delaforet-style bottle.” She peers closer at the seafoam-colored contents. “Is this…” she sounds faintly disbelieving. “Is this… an elixir of nerve regeneration?”

There’s a beat, and then Hermione is spinning to look Harry dead in the eye. “Harry—“

Harry looks innocently back at her. He already knows what she’s asking, but he’s not going to make this easy for her. “Yes, Hermione?”

Hermione gives him a look that says she knows exactly what he’s doing. “Did you get hit by the Cruciatus curse?”

There’s a beat of silence, during which what seems like every Slytherin within three meters of the conversation turns to regards them, and then Harry finally speaks. “Er… yeah.” He’d been hoping to accidentally-on-purpose fail to tell Hermione exactly what happened in the graveyard, but now there’s no point in lying.

Hermione stares at him blankly for so long that Harry starts to get uncomfortable. "Don't worry," Harry attempts in a light, joking sort of voice, "My handwriting's gotten a bit worse since, but I haven't had any points taken off." Mostly because he hasn't turned in any homework yet, but that's irrelevant.

"That's really not what you should be focusing on," Hermione says in a voice that is not quite a shriek. After a moment she takes a long slow, deep breath. A muscle in Hermione’s jaw is ticking out a constant staccato, but when she speaks again, her voice is even. “Did Dumbledore have you get any sort of treatment for what happened?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Greengrass' eyes slowly widening, and she's casting a glance at Zabini like she can't believe what she's hearing.

“In his defense,” Harry starts lightly, “I don’t think Dumbledore knew I got held under the Cruciatus. It never really came up, you know?”

“It never came up,” Greengrass whispers in a tone of incredulity. Harry ignores her.

Hermione’s eyes just narrow further. “So you mean to say,” she asks coolly, “you came back from roughly an hour alone with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Dumbledore didn’t even have Pomfrey give you a checkup?”

Harry just shrugs tiredly. “What, did you expect him to? I wasn’t dead or gibbering mad—“ Greengrass is making a funny choking noise, Harry hopes she’s alright, “—and there was Barty Crouch Jr. to hunt down.”

“Wait,” Zabini cuts in, “What’s this about Barty Crouch Jr.?”

“Great question!” Harry says with the slightly hysterical cheer of the very tired. He’s glad for any excuse to avoid the current line of inquiry— Hermione is starting to scare him a bit. “Barty Crouch Jr. escaped Azkaban— with his dad’s help, interestingly enough— and then escaped his dad, too. He spent fourth year impersonating Mad-Eye Moody; he’s the one who put my name in the Goblet of Fire, and who made the trophy into a portkey. Unfortunately for all two of us interested in justice in Wizarding Britain, Fudge was grossly incompetent as usual and he ended up being Kissed before he could be put on trial.”

Harry finally gives into temptation, folding his arms and laying down his head on the table. He’s pretty sure the Slytherins would be too busy gaping and acting shocked to attack him even if Hermione wasn’t here.

“There’s no way,” a nearby Slytherin— Davies or Davis or something like that, maybe?— blurts out. “You’re lying. T—there’s no way.”

“No, he isn’t,” Hermione replies rather coldly. “Why do you think Mad-Eye Moody was always drinking from his flask? That was Polyjuice Potion he was using to maintain his disguise. And why on Earth would an Auror be using the Unforgivables in class, including on students?” Her mouth twists in a truly fearsome scowl. “Harry isn’t a liar, no matter what the Prophet may say. He didn’t put his name in the Triwizard Tournament, and he hasn’t gone mad, and You-Know-Who is b—”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupts from where he’s buried his face in his folded arms, “they know.” He shoves himself back up to a sitting position and props his head up on one fist. “They didn’t even have to hear it from me.” He makes eye contact with Parkinson; there had been a Death Eater in the graveyard with the exact same nasal, grating voice as her. As she stares back at him, Harry smiles in a flash of teeth. Parkinson flinches back, face pale, and Harry’s smile widens.

Next to him, Hermione looks vaguely ill. Harry pats her on the arm with his free hand. “Don’t worry, Hermione, I can take care of myself,” he tells her. It’s only half a lie. He doubts any of them can kill him, but if he keeps on getting magically exhausted like this maiming isn’t off the table. He hopes Hermione can get him those books on fighting with knives soon.

“Anyway,” Harry says, turning to Zabini, “how much am I supposed to drink?”

Zabini’s eyes look a little wider than usual, but his voice is just as steady and impossibly smooth as always as he says, “just a sip.”

Harry hums in acknowledgment, then gives Hermione a quick glance. She looks at him blankly for a moment, and then she’s raising her wand, casting a spell that Harry knows will keep the Slytherins from hearing what Harry and Zabini are saying. Not exactly what Harry was going for— he doesn’t care what the Slytherins think, as long as it doesn't involve targetting weaknesses of his— but he supposes expecting Hermione to intercede on his negotiations with Slytherins is too much to ask.

“What do you expect in return?” Harry asks immediately.

For a split second Zabini just blinks and looks at him, but then he says, “You’re even more fascinating than I thought you were. And you humiliated Malfoy back in the Common Room— humiliated him in full view of the House.”

Harry tilts his head. “Why would you care about that? I thought you got along with him well enough, at least for the most part?” He remembers how Zabini had talked amiably with Malfoy on the first night, how Malfoy had even seemed to take what Zabini was saying into account in a way he’s too arrogant to do with most people.

“I’ve always had to be friendly with him,” Zabini says. “My family is politically neutral, but being in Slytherin means that people in the other houses aren’t exactly eager to associate themselves with me. Malfoy’s powerful, and that means I’ve had to defer to him to some extent— although as a political neutral, I really shouldn’t have to. Daphne’s experienced the same thing, too.”

He leans in a little closer to Harry, smiling in the slow, delighted way that he did when Harry had admitted to putting up blood wards around his bed. “But now that you’re here, we don’t have to anymore. It’s been only a bit more than two days, and you’ve already shaken up the political hierarchy in Slytherin in a way that hasn’t happened the entire time I’ve been here. Look at Malfoy now— asking if he can apologize, when he’s barely ever said sorry in his life.”

“But that would still be true regardless of whether or not you spent time with me,” Harry points out. “I would have always answered Malfoy’s challenge by dueling him, regardless of your presence.”

“Yes, but it’s a fair sight more enjoyable watching it from your side,” Zabini says in reply. “It’s like you said. I’m curious about you.”

“R—right,” Harry says faintly.

“All you have to do in exchange for this elixir— for my protection and aid—“ Zabini says, “—is exactly what you’re already doing.” He smiles. “After all, you can’t exactly keep Malfoy from encroaching on the freedom of Daphne and I if he’s able to take advantage of your magical exhaustion or other times when you're vulnerable.”

Harry looks at Zabini blankly.

Zabini smiles again, and this time it’s smaller and slightly crooked. “Maybe that’s too far for you now,” he says. “For now, just know that you aren’t in my debt for this potion.” He pushes the bottle a little closer to Harry.

Harry stares at it a moment, watching the liquid froth up in pearlescent bubbles, and then he unstoppers the bottle.

The elixir tastes like cantaloupe and seaweed, and it fizzes against the inside of Harry’s mouth like the sip of soda pop he’d once stolen from Dudley. He can feel it slipping down his throat, cool in a way that’s strangely pleasant considering how cold Harry already is. That same coolness spreads slowly through his body until it reaches his hands, where it seems to soothe some of the unpleasant tingling that’s been with him ever since the graveyard.

Harry stoppers the bottle again and tucks it away, then turns to Hermione, who quickly breaks the privacy spell. “Thank you for sitting with me,” he says.

Hermione smiles. “Of course,” she says, like it’s a foregone conclusion that she would face a whole table bursting with Death Eater’s children and Death Eater’s sympathizers and blood purists just because Harry’s feeling a bit tired. Honestly, it makes Harry feel a bit guilty for how much of the summer he’d spent irritated with her. Harry casts her a smile and, resolving to appreciate her more in the future, heads off to class.

Eating’s helped Harry a little; his legs are steady enough that he isn’t worried about collapsing where he stands, and his school bag doesn’t feel insurmountably heavy anymore. Still, he’s cold down to his very bones, and his chest feels like something’s eaten away at him from the inside out until it hit rib.

Professor Flitwick takes one look at him and shakes his head. “Magically exhausted, are you?” he asks sympathetically. “No surprise there, considering what you were up to last class period—” Some of Harry’s surprise must show on his face because Professor Flitwick chuckles. “What, did you think I hadn’t noticed?”

“You can take today’s class off. Straining your magic will only hinder your recovery— and I dare say you’ve mastered the Summoning Charm,” he adds with another chuckle. “Perhaps you could take a nap? I’ve heard that extra sleep does wonders for magical exhaustion.”

Harry can’t help but scoff quietly at that, his eyes flicking around the classroom warily. He isn’t about to fall asleep out in the open like this without someone he trusts watching his back.

Professor Flitwick’s smile slips and for a moment is replaced by an expression Harry isn’t sure he quite understands, but he quickly rallies. “You may borrow my office if you prefer. I have a wonderful armchair that I imagine would be an excellent place to doze off for a little while.”

Harry hesitates, weighing the offer, and then nods. The entrance to the office is behind Flitwick, so he doubts any other Slytherins would be able to sneak in, and he can always move the armchair so that it’s facing the door and sleep lightly enough that even if someone did sneak in, he would wake up.

Harry rises, pulling his school bag over one shoulder. As he passes the spot where Malfoy sits, he half-expects some sort of taunting remark— maybe something about Harry being a baby who needs to be put down for a nap— but Malfoy is oddly silent.

The armchair is indeed incredibly comfortable, enough so that it isn’t nearly as hard to fall asleep as Harry thought it would be. In fact, it’s so comfortable that even as the bell rings, Harry’s more than a bit tempted to simply curl deeper into it and sleep for the rest of the day. Still, Harry doesn’t want to impose on Professor Flitwick’s hospitality and besides, he needs to go see the new and inventive ways this year’s Defense professor will be awful.

Harry counts out five more seconds, then leverages himself out of the armchair and pulls his school bag back over his shoulder. The thought of how many classes he still has left before the day’s over is making his head ache.

Harry enters the Defense classroom a bit late— he’d lingered a moment to thank Professor Flitwick— but Zabini and Greengrass waited for him, which means he at least isn’t the sole offender. This doesn’t seem to matter at all to Umbridge.

“Five points from Slytherin, Mr. Potter,” she announces. Greengrass braces herself a little like she’s preparing to get points taken, too, but Umbridge pointedly ignores both her and Zabini in favor of looking at Harry like he’s something unpleasant she’s found crusted on the bottom of her shoe.

Harry shrugs to himself and takes his seat in the back corner of the room. He’s faintly surprised that it— and two seats for Zabini and Greengrass, even— are still empty, but he’s hardly one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Mr. Potter, when I say something, I should like to be answered with either ‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,” or ‘No, Professor Umbridge’ and not just a shrug,” a syrupy sweet voice cuts in.

Harry glances up to see that Umbridge is glaring at him with narrowed eyes even as she maintains a plasticky, stiff smile. Harry’s only been hated on sight by one person in his life before— Harry doesn’t really count the Dursleys because he can’t remember his first encounter with them— and compared to Snape her glare really isn’t up to par. As is to be expected of the consistently sub-standard Ministry.

“Yes, Professor,” Harry answers, biting back the urge to respond with something a bit less polite.

Umbridge looks back at him for a long moment and then says, “Mr. Potter, come up to the front of the room.”

Harry rises. Part of him is warning that Umbridge is about to punish him with the magical equivalent of a ruler to the knuckles— or worse— and so he’s glad for the pressure of the wand holster on his forearm, for the weight of the penknife in his pocket. They may be mostly useless to him right now, but at least they’re something.

Umbridge steps to the side and gestures to the blackboard with a frilly little flourish. “Write the course aims on the board with chalk,” she orders, smug and sweet.

“I don’t know the course aims,” Harry points out. “Professor,” he adds belatedly.

Umbridge purses her lips together in a way that Aunt Petunia used to do, too. “Too busy whiling your summer away to study, were you?” She sighs in a very put-upon manner. “I suppose I’ll have to dictate them as you write. Begin with this: ‘students will understand the principles underlying defensive magic.’ ”

Harry picks up the chalk and starts writing. Behind him, Umbridge makes a disparaging noise. “Mr. Potter, your handwriting is abhorrent. Can you even draw a straight line?”

“No, Professor,” Harry replies as blandly as he can manage. “My hands shake too much for that.”

Umbridge scoffs. Harry smiles back at her as he steps back from the board and wipes the chalk dust off his hands.

“Now,” she tells him, “write ‘students will learn to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.’”

Harry can’t help it. He laughs.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Potter?”

“Not at all,” Harry replies, hastily trying to pretend that he was coughing and not laughing. It’s just ironic that she’s the one talking about situations where defensive magic is legal, considering the role she played at his trial.

“No, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge says, clasping her hands in front of her pink-clad body, “if you have a concern, I want to hear it.”

Harry lifts his brows at her, unimpressed. Aunt Petunia’s been trying that trick on him for as long as he can remember, he isn’t going to fall for it from some incompetent Ministry lackey. “I was just clearing my throat,” he tells her. He smiles, or maybe just bares his gritted teeth. It’s hard to tell.

“Five points from Slytherin for dishonesty.” Umbridge turns away, murmuring, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering…”

Harry doesn’t reply, just looks back at her with a little half-smile until she finally lets him write the third course aim on the board.

When he finishes, Umbridge faces the class, clasping her hands in front of her once more. Harry takes the opportunity to return to his seat, even though she hasn’t technically dismissed him. “Now, class, do you have any questions?”

She turns to look at Harry before the words are even all of the way out of her mouth. In fact, she’s so busy glaring fixedly at Harry that when one of the Slytherins raises their hand, it takes her an almost comically long time to notice. “Yes, Miss—”

“Tracey Davis.” She lets her hand drop now that Umbridge has called on her. “I was just wondering— what defensive magic will we be learning, exactly? It seems like the course aims are only describing theory.”

“That is correct,” Umbridge says with the magnanimous air of a primary school teacher praising a young child. Harry’s teeth clench just a little bit further.

There’s a long moment of confused silence and then Umbridge adds, “I can’t imagine a situation in which you would need to know how to…” she affects a tone of scandalized disgust, “use defensive spells.”

The troll in first year, Harry thinks. Words pool in his mouth like poison and hot, dense anger stirs in his chest like the slow churn of magma beneath the earth’s surface. Quirrell, the basilisk in second year, the dementors, the fucking Tournament last year—

Davis casts a quick, darting glance towards Harry, then, before Harry can do anything more than blink back at her, turns back to Umbridge and asks, “what about what happened with— with Cedric Diggory, last year? At the end of the Tournament?”

Harry’s entire chest clenches like someone’s squeezing him with an iron fist, and for a moment he can’t breathe at all.

“That was a tragic accident,” Umbridge says, sickly sweet.

“It wasn’t an accident.” The words are out before Harry can think. He curses himself for his carelessness, but even as he does, he continues to speak. The heat in his chest has crept up until his veins burn like liquid fire and his rage pounds in his throat, in the dry rough sensation as he swallows. Some things can’t be bitten back. “Cedric Diggory was murdered. Murdered by Voldemort.”

“You are lying, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge interrupts. She’s flushing in a way that reminds Harry of Uncle Vernon when he starts to get angry.

“Claiming anything less is disrespecting his memory,” Harry continues over her. “Cedric Diggory was—” his breath catches, and for a moment he has to stop. “Cedric Diggory was an honorable man, and a testament to his house.”

That’s something Kreacher said, when Harry had told him a little bit about the events of the Tournament, and the turn of phrase had stuck with him. Talking about this is easier, he thinks, when he can use someone else’s words— especially the words of someone as articulate as Kreacher.

Harry forges on. “He was killed without provocation, without reason— without any reason beyond—” Harry shuts his eyes. Kill the spare. “Beyond being in the way,” he finishes in a low, carrying whisper.

There’s a moment of quiet where it feels like no one in the room is breathing, and then Umbridge draws in a quick, deep breath and seems to come back to herself.

“You are the one acting disrespectfully with your prideful, attention-seeking lies,” she hisses. “That will be another ten points from Slytherin for deceit.”

Harry stares back at her, stony. She can insult him, call him a liar and try to discredit him, but Harry won’t allow her to do the same to Cedric. Not after everything Cedric’s been through, after every indignity he already suffered.

“But Mr. Potter,” and now she’s trying to make her voice sound friendly and open but any sweetness she manages just sounds saccharine to Harry, “you can still redeem yourself. All you need to do is admit that you’ve been lying. Tell the truth.”

Frustration surges through Harry like water bursting out of a dam, and he snaps. “I am, but you don’t want to hear it. You don’t want the truth— you want pretty lies to soothe your conscience and quiet your fears—”

“Mr. Potter, you will be quiet now or so help me I will make you be quiet—” Umbridge snarls, but the words are pouring out of Harry now and nothing can stop them, not even the way he has to keep his eyes on her because she’s stalking closer to his desk like a circling predator.

“—you want to bury your head in the sand, but not everyone has that luxury. If you’d like to stay willfully ignorant, that’s your own choice, but I won’t let you force that onto anyone else, let alone set up an entire generation of schoolchildren to be killed in the coming war—”

Umbridge draws her wand with a swish, crying “Silencio.” Harry’s hand shoots out and sweeps Umbridge’s aim wide before what she’s casting even registers. The spell slams into the wall to Harry’s left.

The classroom is silent around them. Harry hesitates a split second, then puts his hand down. He has the vague thought that Umbridge might try to press charges, in much the same way that football players sometimes pretend to be gravely injured when all they've received is a light, accidental tap, but that’s a problem for later.

“Professor.” Harry leans forward; he can feel his voice lowering with the force of his conviction. “Pretending that danger doesn’t exist doesn’t make you safe. It just makes you unprepared.”

“Detention, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge announces. She’s actually trembling with outrage, like she physically can’t stand to hear what Harry’s saying. Can’t stand to hear the truth. After a moment, she shakes her head and, yanking open a drawer, slaps a roll of parchment down on her desk. “I have never seen—” she mutters, scrawling something down, “—such insubordination and churlishness.”

She gives her wand a prissy little wave, and the ink dries in an instant. “Take this—” she hands him the pink, faintly floral-smelling note, “—to your Head of House.”

“Yes, Professor.” Harry grabs his school bag and heads out, tipping a quick nod to Zabini and Greengrass as he goes.

The second the door’s shut behind him, Harry unfolds the note. There’s nothing much on it— just a quick summary of what happened and the punishment Umbridge assigned. The biggest thing Harry learns is that Umbridge dots her I’s with little hearts, which is a piece of information Harry could have lived a long and fruitful life without ever knowing.

Harry crumples the note up and Vanishes it on his third or fourth try. There’s no way in hell he’s going to involve Snape in this; he would sooner ask Aunt Petunia to come to a parent-teacher conference.

One big benefit of not actually going to see Snape is that he now has the rest of the period off; Umbridge will expect him to spend the time being lectured by Snape, and everyone else will assume that Harry’s in Defense. Meanwhile, Harry can be doing something actually useful.

Whistling cheerfully to himself, Harry removes his invisibility cloak from his bag and swings it over his shoulders. Speaking of Snape, he should probably do that essay on the uses of moonstones. Professor Flitwick neglected to collect any homework from him, but he highly doubts that Snape will afford him the same luxury.

With everyone else in class, the library is blissfully quiet and empty. Harry skims through various books on potions ingredients and magical rocks until he has just enough information to dash off a rambling, fact-sparse essay detailing various applications of moonstones. He could probably do better, but it’s not worth the effort when Snape is going to give him the same low grade regardless of the actual product he turns in.

As Harry tucks away his essay, his fingers brush the letter Hedwig delivered to him during breakfast. He hesitates a moment, then rallies himself. He may be in Slytherin now, but he’s still a Gryffindor at heart, and he should act like it. Taking a deep breath, Harry pulls the letter out.

H.—

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t delighted to hear your news, but Moony straightened me out pretty quickly. He has informed me in no uncertain terms that you’re the same kid as always, you clearly had no desire to end up in this situation, and you’re undoubtedly even more miserable about all of this than any of the rest of us are.

Even if the Hat thinks you’re a power-hungry snake now, to me you’ll always be my messy-haired godson— the toddler who learned to fly before he could even walk properly, the kid who was so kindhearted he’d try to give chicken bones to a literal Grim, the teen who cheerfully abused a time turner just to help me out— and there’s nothing anyone can say that will change that. I don’t remember if I ever told you this, but when I was young, my family pretty much disowned me— although in all honesty it wasn’t like I wanted to remain part of their fucked-up cult of a “family”, either. Either way, I know what it’s like to have someone who should be family suddenly decide that your relationship is disposable. I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but I want to be the best godfather I can be— even if that means, as Moony insists, not making a big fuss about this whole clusterfuck mess of a situation.

Moony says hi, by the way— in case that wasn’t already obvious. The two of us are working together to rustle up some good spells to help keep you safe in that snakepit. Moony’s worried, but considering how well you were doing in our duels over the summer, I think that you’ll survive for now— just be sure not to show any weakness, Slytherins sniff that shit out like sharks with blood in the water.

Write back soon, otherwise Moony will start worrying your body’s been dumped in the Black Lake by some enterprising seventh-year Slytherins.

Snuffles.

Harry can’t help the slow, shaky sigh that shudders its way out of him. It feels as though he can take a full breath for the first time since his Sorting. Centimeter by centimeter, the tension in his shoulders starts to unspool, and an anxious ache in his stomach that he hadn’t even consciously noticed starts to slowly abate. Sirius isn’t angry with him. He still considers Harry his godson, still cares about him, still wants to make sure he’s safe. This whole re-sorting may have messed up a lot of things in Harry’s life, but it hasn’t messed up this.

Harry smooths out the letter and begins to read it again, this time slowly enough to parse Sirius’ words on a level beyond his earlier panicked scan to see if Sirius had decided Harry was too unlike James to bear. The mention of Sirius’ family makes his stomach twist unpleasantly, and he’s excited to see what spells Sirius and Lupin will recommend to him, but the biggest thing that sticks out on the second readthrough is how revealing it is. Sirius may not have used either of their real names, but between mentioning the re-sorting and talking about being his godfather, it doesn’t take that much work to connect the dots. It’s a damn good thing Harry had enough common sense not to open this at the breakfast table.

A little rummaging, and Harry’s able to hunt down the book on cryptography that Kreacher sent to him. One of the pages is marked with a silk ribbon of some indeterminate, dark color; Harry flips the book open and skims down the page until he finds the spell that he thinks Kreacher must have been referring to. The description, written in a spidery, cramped hand, explains that, when cast upon a book or letter, it deceives the eyes of anyone aside from the caster, making it impossible to discern the wording. In smaller text, the author had added another spell that will allow other people to briefly see past the illusion.

The wand motion diagrams are small and blurred by time and what looks like spilled water, but Harry thinks he still manages to get a pretty good idea of what they’re trying to convey. He has far less luck with the incantations. Just by virtue of the sheer number of Latin-based spells they teach at Hogwarts, he’s managed to pick up the basics of Latin pronunciation, and by the end of the summer Kreacher was no longer giving full-bodied winces at hearing Harry attempt to pronounce the French-based incantations of Black spells, but he doesn’t even know what language these incantations are in.

“O...oo—guh lio...liogan?” Harry tries hesitantly. Is this Russian? Italian? German? He honestly isn’t sure. In what is fast becoming a time-honored tradition of his, he concludes that clearly the best way to make this strange new spell work is to throw as much magic as he can at it and hope for the best.

“Ooga logan!” he commands— and crumples over, gasping as he feels the strained, tattered remnants of his magic expanding and stretching in a sensation reminiscent of someone trying to re-inflate a very degraded balloon. He desperately tries to tug his magic back in, but it’s too late. He can feel it snap, the balloon exploding in a flurry of thin, bedraggled rubber rags, and he suddenly feels very tired, and very cold, and like his stomach has never been full in his life.

Harry groans, huddling deeper under his Invisibility Cloak as though it’s enough to keep him warm. This has to be the dumbest thing he’s done this week, and that’s taking into account the time he spent sassing Umbridge this morning, the incident where he punched Pucey, a seventh-year Slytherin, just because he got startled, and the whole duel with Malfoy.

His vision is starting to go a little grey, and his head feels like it’s spinning in slow circles. Maybe if he just rested for a moment… Harry folds his arms on the table and tucks his cheek into the crook of his elbow.

Someone is shaking his shoulder. Harry groans and rolls his head off his arms. Exhaustion still clings to him, threatening to drag him back under, but a niggling voice in the back of his head demands that he get up, check out this new presence, assess if they’re a threat. He forces his eyes open.

Harry blinks crusted sleep from his eyes.“...Ron?”

Ron nods. “You didn’t show up to Potions; Hermione got worried.” He tugs on the Invisibility Cloak gently. “You really shouldn’t sleep under this. I only managed to find you because of the Marauder’s Map.” Before Harry can open his mouth to defend himself, Ron has already moved on to a different topic. “So,” he says with a flashing grin, “I hear you dueled Malfoy last night.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubs at his tired eyes, then, realizing Ron is waiting eagerly, elaborates a bit. “Uh… he challenged me to a duel because Pucey— the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, you know— offered to make me Seeker. I’m not going to accept, of course,” Harry hastens to clarify, “I wouldn’t do that to Gryffindor— but Malfoy was really angry about it even though I told him as much.”

Ron chuckles. “The look on his face must have been hilarious.”

“Yeah.” Harry grins in reminiscence. “Anyway, I just sort of… kicked Malfoy’s legs out from under him. But he said that it didn’t count, so I dueled him again. Malfoy got really pissy because apparently, my spells weren’t fancy enough, which is idiotic. I knew Malfoy was pretentious, but I didn’t realize he could get elitist about dueling on top of everything else.”

Ron sighs. “Harry, as your best mate I’m obligated to tell you: you are absolutely shit at telling stories.” He sits down beside him. “You’re missing all of the juicy details. What kind of spells did you use? How did the Slytherins react when you beat Malfoy? How did Malfoy react?”

Harry just blinks sleepily back, so Ron, rolling his eyes, moves on. He’s only just opened his mouth to speak again when Harry suddenly bolts upright, adrenaline finally waking him fully. “Wait,” he rasps urgently, “you said I missed Potions.”

Ron squints back at him. “Yeah,” he says, “it’s like halfway through Potions right now. It’s fine, though— Snape’s ignoring you, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers, “and I want to keep it that way. If I skip Potions, Snape might get mad enough to decide he’s going to recognize that I exist after all, and then he’ll chew me out about skipping History of Magic and Divination and everything too, and I might have to start wasting my time in those classes again.”

Ron hums in acknowledgment and then, cheerfully enough that Harry kind of hates him for it, says, “Well, too late to do anything about that. You missed lunch, right? Eating is really important when you’re recovering from magical exhaustion. Let’s go to the kitchens.”

“You just want to get some of the house elves’ bacon sandwiches before they all run out,” Harry accuses.

“Guilty as charged,” Ron answers cheerfully, and, slinging one of Harry’s arms over his shoulder, starts walking him towards the library’s exit. “Come on, we need to eat early so you’ll still have room for dinner— which you’re going to be eating at the Gryffindor table, by the way, there’s no way I’m leaving you alone with the Slytherins when you’re like this.”

Warmth burns in the center of Harry’s chest, and he can’t help the way the corner of his lips twitches upwards. It’s so good to know that Ron’s got his back.

“Oh,” Harry blurts out abruptly, “Did you hear about the whole thing with Umbridge?”

Ron nods grimly. “Slytherins, unsurprisingly, are insufferable gossips.” Harry wisely doesn’t mention the wild rumors that fly through Gryffindor with disturbing regularity. “The whole school was talking about it during lunch. Hermione and I actually thought that was why you were skipping. But nope, you were just taking a nap instead.” He lifts one lanky-fingered hand and ruffles Harry’s hair roughly.

Harry sighs, absently batting Ron’s hand away. He really wishes he featured in the Hogwarts rumor mill less often. “Do—” he swallows, hesitates a moment, then starts again. “Do people believe me? About Voldemort?”

Ron tenses in a way that Harry knows means that no, they don’t. After a moment, he says, “Not all of them.” He glances over at Harry, then turns. “But I think some of the Hufflepuffs felt… touched. Since you were talking about Cedric being a credit to his house, and all that. And,” he adds quickly, “a lot of the Gryffindors believe you, of course.” Harry suppresses a snort. The way Ron phrased that, Harry can tell that he’s just saying it because he doesn’t want Gryffindor to be upstaged.

“Anyway,” Ron continues in a grimmer tone, “I don’t think there’s much you could do to make them believe you. Remember when we talked to McGonagall about the Stone in first year? And how long it took Hogwarts to even consider shutting down in second year? People don’t like acknowledging that they’re in danger.”

Harry nods. Trying to persuade people who are determined to remain ignorant really isn’t the best use of his time. They’ll either believe him or they won’t. Either way, he’ll almost certainly be on his own when it comes to fighting Voldemort. He smiles, a grim little twist of his lips. No surprise there.

In the wake of everything, Harry feels tired and light, like a bit of flotsam made porous by the endless slow degrading of creeping saltwater. He allows Ron to sweep him along, lets inertia carry him through the hazy world his exhaustion has wrought.

They eat lunch in the kitchens, Harry trudging through the full plate of food the house elves thrust upon him while Dobby and Ron cheerfully commiserate about the Malfoys. It’s easy to let their words turn to soft mush in his ears; he doesn’t think he could pick through what they’re saying if he tried.

Behind him, the great brick fireplaces the House Elves use in their cooking crackles merrily, and between that and the lumpy knit hat Dobby pulled over his head as soon as Ron mentioned him being cold, Harry feels nearly toasty. It’s all too easy to pillow his head on his arms and drift off once more.

Some indeterminate amount of time later Ron is shaking him awake, telling him it’s time for dinner. Dobby is in the middle of a story about the time Lucius Malfoy accidentally dyed his hair red and there’s no way in hell Ron is going to pass that one up, so they eat in the kitchens once more. After that Harry shuffles on back to his Common Room, tugs his curtains closed around his bed, and collapses face-first onto his sheets.

Harry wakes up late the next morning. Exhaustion laps at his feet like the grasping tide, always ready to sweep him back under again. Finally, rubbing at sleep-crusted eyelids that refuse to stay open, Harry croaks out, “Dobby.”

There’s a harsh cracking noise, and even without opening his eyes, Harry can tell that Dobby is standing in the fabric-cloaked enclosure of his bed. It distantly occurs to Harry that probably, if any of his enemies in Slytherin think of asking a House Elf for help, they’ll be able to access his bed just as easily as Dobby did—but Harry can’t think about that now. “Would you please get me some coffee?” Harry manages around a cavernous yawn that threatens to crack his jaw like a wishbone.

A moment later and Harry has a hot mug of steaming coffee clutched in his cold-stiffened hands. He sips through it as quickly as he can stand, speeding up as the coffee cools and just how late it is starts to sink in. There’s no way in hell he has time to go flying. Of course, it’s probably for the best—until his magic recovers, he should save his strength—but still, some part of him aches at the loss of that precious slice of peace.

Once he’s finished his coffee he rolls out of bed, tugs on his clothes, and heads out. As always, Zabini and Greengrass fall in on either side of him as he exits the common room.

It’s raining again, a slow, leaden downpour that makes it feel like everything’s muffled. The sound of it makes Harry feel sleepy even with the coffee. Some animal part of him wants nothing more than to find a dry, warm hollow somewhere to curl up tight and doze until the world is washed clean again. He can’t help but resent the need to slog on through his day of work.

Harry ducks his face, tucking his nose deeper into the soft folds of the scarf Kreacher sent him to conceal the frown tugging the corners of his lips down—and then twitches, just a little, as Zabini draws his wand with a quick flick of his wrist and casts something towards Harry. A sudden rush of warm air surrounds him, much like if he had just stepped in front of an open fire. Harry blinks owlishly up at Zabini, who only looks down at him for a moment before quickly turning away.

Before Harry can think on it any longer, they’re stepping into the Great Hall. There’s a moment’s silence as what feels like half of the student body turns to stare at Harry, and then a soft explosion of whispering.

Harry isn’t trying to listen, but it’s hard not to pick up some of what they’re saying: “...says he saw Cedric murdered…” and “everyone knows that Slytherins are liars” and “if Diggory got killed by You-Know-Who then how could a reckless, stupid fifth year like Potter survive?”

Harry can’t help the way he shrinks back. He knows he should try to make some sort of show of strength, but he’s so tired, and his core feels barren and cold. It’s all he can do to stay standing instead of just giving into his impulses and curling up on the floor to take a nap.

Hermione shoves her book aside, and it looks like she’s trying to find and glare at each individual speaker. Ron, meanwhile, seems to be taking the much more economical approach of simply scowling at the room in general. After a few more fruitless attempts at cowing the room, Hermione turns. Her lips twitch down when she gets a look at Harry, and then— this part is so strange that Harry half-wonders if he’s hallucinating it in his weakness— she casts a nod over to Zabini.

Zabini leans in close enough that Harry can smell the musky-sweet of his perfume and asks, “Would you be willing to take my arm?” For a moment Harry just blinks, not sure why he’s asking instead of just taking him by the elbow and tugging him wherever it is he’s supposed to go—and then he realizes two things nearly simultaneously. Firstly, Zabini doesn’t want to lead him around; he’s noticed that Harry’s a bit unsteady and is offering to let Harry lean on him. Secondly, he clearly recalls Harry mentioning that people who touch him without warning often end up getting hexed, and he’s taking sensible precautions.

Nodding, Harry tucks his hand into the crook of Zabini’s elbow and lets him take some of Harry’s weight. With Zabini to lean on, it’s easier to focus on keeping his face smooth and unconcerned, placid as the still surface of a clear pool.

Even though they’re here late, their usual seats are empty. Harry reluctantly slips his hand from the warmth of Zabini’s arm and settles next to him. Zabini and Greengrass sit flanking him and he starts to feel a little better; it’s easier to ignore the whispers when he can shield himself with the bulk of their bodies.

Breakfast slips by in painful quiet. Harry picks at his food, the Slytherins pretend they’re not staring, and they all act like they can’t hear who the rest of the Hall is whispering about.

At least until one voice cuts through the rest. “I bet Potter killed Diggory himself so that he could win the Tournament. I mean, he’s a Slytherin.”

Ice spreads through Harry’s chest. His ears are ringing, and it feels like his head has been thrust underwater. They… they think that he killed Cedric? Over the fucking Triwizard Tournament?

“Who said that?” a voice demands. It takes Harry a moment to realize that it’s Fred. He’s never heard either of the twins sound even half so serious.

“Who said that?” Fred demands a second time. His familiar voice has transformed into something cold and clear and cutting.

There’s a long moment.

“If you want to make such a claim,” Fred says into the quiet, “you will have to duel me for the right.”

After that, the Great Hall remains silent for the rest of breakfast. It’s as though the held-breath quiet of the Slytherin table has spread out to encompass the entire room like a thick blanket lying over the students, muffling them. Despite the pressure of the dreadful silence, Harry can’t find it within himself to do much more than huddle a little closer to Zabini.

These last few days have stretched on endlessly, every hour made long by the charged tension hanging so thick in the air that it feels like each passing moment etches itself in crystal. Now, exhaustion has begun to blur those sharp edges. It’s not that Harry feels safe—not by any stretch of the imagination—it’s just that he’s simply too tired to maintain the same constant, gimlet-eyed level of focus as before.

Class slips by slowly. When Harry tells McGonagall that he didn’t do his Transfiguration homework, she just frowns, and even that looks more worried than stern. Harry takes a nap during his free period instead of reading up on healing or runes or dueling techniques. He eats lunch in the kitchens and tries to ignore the way the house elves hover, mouths downturned and hands fluttering like they want to do something but don’t know what. Everything feels distant and faint, like he’s dreaming.

Even as he enters the Defense classroom, everything feels just a little bit… hazy. He slides into his desk from the day before and has to exert a somewhat absurd amount of effort to avoid putting his head down. He’s faintly aware that Zabini—sitting at his side as usual—is giving him some sort of look that Harry’s too tired to interpret, but it only registers distantly. On his other side, Greengrass is looking… Harry isn’t sure what Greengrass is looking like, but it doesn’t seem like she’s happy with him.

“Good afternoon, class,” Umbridge trills as she trots up to the front of the room. There’s a split second of silence, during which Harry can almost hear the entire class collectively thinking, do we have to, and then in perfect monotonous unison, “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.” Harry doesn’t bother to open his mouth. He’s so tired that just the thought of speaking makes him think of his bed with the type of soul-deep yearning that’s usually only present in the sorts of lurid romance novels Aunt Petunia pretends she doesn’t read.

“Mr. Potter?” Umbridge asks, raising her brow sharply. She’s got a fat pink bow on today, and it bobs as she moves. Harry watches that bobbing with a sort of dull fascination, wondering what it would look like if he set it on fire.

“Mr. Potter!” Umbridge snaps.

Harry tears his eyes from her funny-looking bow with difficulty and blinks tiredly up at her. What?

There’s a long moment of silence, like Umbridge is waiting for him to say something, but Harry has no idea what she wants from him, and even if he did know, he would not be particularly inclined to give it to her.

“How interesting, Mr. Potter, that you’ve fallen so quiet now, when you so readily spewed such filthy lies just yesterday,” Umbridge says in a simpering, condescending tone.

There’s another long moment of silence, during which Harry just stares quietly back up at her. Lips curling, she tries again. “Mr. Potter?”

Somehow, quite accidentally, Harry locks eyes with Davis, who is sitting in the row just in front of his and watching him intently. Harry tugs his gaze away.

“Mr. Potter,” Umbridge coaxes, “All you need to do is admit that you lied.”

Like that time with Zabini after Potions on the first day—just a few days back, although it feels far longer ago than that—Harry allows the silence to stretch, to grow rich and deep and full, until it vibrates in the air like a plucked bowstring.

“Mr. Potter,” Umbridge warns, “it is very difficult for liars to get jobs with the Ministry.”

She’s threatening his career? Harry chuckles lowly. He hears one of the other Slytherins snort. He knows they’re all thinking of how long McGonagall had fruitlessly lectured him on the importance of preparing for O.W.L.s.

Umbridge lets out a harsh, frustrated breath. “Is there something wrong with him?” she asks the class at large. “A silencing charm, perhaps?” Without waiting for a response, she reaches for her wand. A sudden burst of adrenaline shoots through Harry’s exhausted body, and he raises his textbook in front of his face just in time to catch a churning, twisting petal pink spell against its cover.

Silence rings loud around him. Harry tosses the textbook back onto his desk; the cover is stained syrupy pink, and it’s as misshapen as wax held up to a fire. “I’ve already said everything about—I’ve already said everything that I intend to,” Harry says. “Explaining myself again makes it seem like I think I need to prove myself to you, which I don’t. The truth is the truth, whether or not you choose to ignore it.” Harry thinks that was pretty well-phrased, especially considering how tired he is—which is why it’s so embarrassing that the next thing he says is “goodnight.”

Shaking his embarrassment away, Harry reaches under his desk and grabs his bag. For one shining moment he considers leaving Umbridge’s Defense textbook on the desk; but it occurs to him he may want a similarly handy portable shield in the future, and so with an inaudible sigh he picks it back up again.

Umbridge shakes herself out of her stupor. “Detention, Mr. Potter! And sit down!”

Harry ignores her entirely. He had been planning to sit through her classes, if only to avoid tempting fate when it comes to Snape’s convenient Harry Potter-shaped blindspot, but he already skipped half of Potions the day before, so what does it really matter? Besides, Harry just… can’t be bothered with this today.

He tips Greengrass and Zabini a nod as he leaves. Greengrass is frowning faintly, and Zabini’s still got that incomprehensible look on his face. Harry can feel his gaze all the way to the door.

The next thing that really registers with him is the softness of his bed, and then that’s all he knows for a long time.

Harry wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later. Sometime in the late night or early morning, he thinks, judging by the level of light in the room. For a minute he just stares blearily at his curtains, and then his stomach twists with creeping dread as he remembers how Dobby had popped in that morning—inside his wards.

“Dobby,” Harry croaks out faintly. He feels bad calling Dobby so many times, especially now that it’s the middle of the night, but if any house elf can get through his wards just as easily as Dobby can, Harry could be in considerable danger.

There’s the usual sharp crack—Harry is glad for the one-way silencing charm that he put up that first night when he was eavesdropping on Malfoy and Zabini—and Dobby is there, just as clearly within the boundaries of the ward as he was that morning.

“Does Harry Potter be needing anything?” he asks. “Something to eat?”

Harry hesitates. Maybe getting something to eat would be a good idea. Seeming to take Harry’s hesitation as permission, Dobby nods sharply. “Dobby be fetching food!”

Dobby pops back in again, this time bearing a hot plate heaving with roast meat and biscuits and gravy and even a glass of pumpkin juice, on the side. Harry stares at it, thinking about Kreacher leaving food at his elbow while he worked and the creamy dish he kept making for Harry, and how in his letter he had—you could almost say he had fretted about the quality of the food at Hogwarts. And Hermione, too, piling food onto his plate as she sat with him at the Slytherin table—and Ron the night before, tugging him to the kitchens.

Back at Privet Drive, he lived on Dudley’s sandwich crusts and the tough outermost layers of onions and the last bits of jam in the jar that no one else cared enough to scrape out—and then later, food carefully saved away as a last resort for when things got really bad. Sometimes, the care his friends exhibit towards him is dizzying.

“Harry Potter should eat,” Dobby says. Harry gives himself a little shake and takes the plate from Dobby. There was something he wanted to ask, he thinks as he starts nibbling on one of the biscuits.

“Can other house elves enter the wards?” Harry rasps out finally. He swigs some of the pumpkin juice, which is perfectly chilled, and his throat feels less raw practically immediately.

Dobby hesitates, closing his eyes and twisting up his face like he’s straining to hear a song Harry can’t make out. After a moment, he blinks them open again.

“No,” he says, awed. “No, Dobby can only come through because Harry Potter invited him. The ward-weaver made it so house elves cannot be entering, same as wizards and witches; the ward-weaver knew house elves well, to understand the shape of House Elves’ magic like this.”

Harry laughs, half-giddy with relief. Of course Regulus would have thought of house elves when he was making the wards; Kreacher was his closest friend, after all.

“Wait,” Harry says after a moment, “Does that mean that house elves can enter most wards? Wards made by people who don’t… who don’t know the—the shape of house elves’ magic as well as Regulus did?”

Dobby nods. “House elf magic is very different from wizard magic.”

Harry leans forward. “How?” He’s always on the lookout for anything that could give him an edge, and he knows how wizards tend to ignore house elves.

Dobby shifts uncomfortably, and Harry draws back. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, or it’s—some kind of house elf secret,” he says quickly.

For some reason, that makes Dobby nod sharply, like he’s just made some sort of decision. “House elves be moving… sideways,” he says. “Wizards be moving… front and back.”

Harry just blinks at him in bafflement. After a moment, Dobby leans back, blushing. “Dobby means what he said as a metaphor,” he mutters to himself.

“Sorry, I just…” Harry shakes his head.

“It’s like—like oil and water,” Dobby tries again. “Oil floats on top of water, and won’t sink no matter how deep water is. But oil cannot see the depths that water can.”

“Okay,” Harry says slowly. That makes a little bit more sense.

“House elves be living off the magic of their Masters,” Dobby adds. “But they do not be using wizard magic. House elves be… be taking wizard magic, and turning it into house elf magic. Like spiders eat flies and beetles and turn them into spider silk.”

“Wait—if house elves live off the magic of their Masters, are you—” Harry blurts out, his throat tight and dry. Did he inadvertently doom Dobby, back in second year?

“Dobby is fine,” Dobby says, smiling. “Dobby is not like other… not like house elves. Dobby…” He falls silent for a long moment, and when he looks back up at Harry his eyes are fierce, piercing. “Harry Potter be not telling other wizards of this. Dobby is only telling Harry Potter, not Harry Potter’s friends.”

“Yes,” Harry says quietly. “I won’t tell anyone else.”

“Swear it,” Dobby commands.

Some instinct tells Harry that Dobby isn’t asking him just for a verbal oath. He rolls over in his bed, grabs his bag, rummages around until he finds his penknife. He slices into the palm of his left hand, right where he cut himself when he first warded the bed. Just like then, rich dark blood bubbles up freely. Dobby’s eyes are wide and glittering.

After a long moment, Dobby swallows. “Harry Potter swore on blood,” he says slowly, in a faint voice.

Harry nods.

“Give Dobby the knife,” Dobby says after another long moment.

Harry hands over the knife with his right hand. Dobby cuts his own palm, and then holds his hand out. Harry clasps their hands together, and he can feel their blood mingling.

“Harry Potter be keeping this secret from wizards and witches,” Dobby commands.

“I’ll keep this—”

“Harry Potter be keeping this secret from wizards and witches,” Dobby repeats, insistent.

“...Harry Potter be keeping this secret from wizards and witches,” Harry says. For a moment, something presses down on him, dark and vibrating and close, and then abruptly he can breathe again. Dobby touches Harry’s hand, and Harry watches as his flesh knits itself back together.

“Before the Binding, house elves was only elves. Elves lived off of wizard magic then too, but not masters’ magic.” Dobby looks up at Harry, and his eyes seem utterly alien. “Elves stole wizard children.”

Harry swallows.

“When Dobby was bound to the Malfoys,” he says, “Malfoy-That-Was-Master hated Dobby. Hated Dobby so much that he only gave Dobby a little magic. Only just enough magic to live. But Dobby remembered stories of elves before house elves, before binding. Dobby knew that house elves did not always live on magic of masters. Dobby knew that house elves only need wizard magic, not master magic. And Dobby was hungry.”

Please don’t say that you ate some sibling of Draco’s, Harry thinks faintly.

“And so Dobby be eating wizard magic left on books, and be chewing on old wands, and gnawing on wards,” Dobby says. Harry exhales harshly. Luckily, Dobby doesn’t seem to notice. “At first it was hard,” Dobby says, “But over time Dobby be getting used to it. And it is being good thing Dobby being eating other wizard magic, because Mas—Malfoy-That-Was-Master be giving Dobby less and less magic as time be passing. When Harry Potter be freeing Dobby, Dobby be mostly living on wizard magic and not master magic—is being able to live only on wizard magic.”

“That’s…” Harry sighs, then laughs. “It’s a good thing that you… I could have killed you, freeing you, if you hadn’t… I’m… I’m glad that you were able to find a way to live, without needing a master. And with such a clever solution, too.”

Dobby smiles. For the first time in a long time, Harry notices just how many teeth Dobby has, and how sharp they all are.

“Have you told other house—other elves about this?” Harry asks. Is Dobby really a house elf, if he doesn’t need a master? If he’s living off of magic without being bound, like his ancestors once did?

Dobby sighs. “Yes, Dobby be telling. But other elves be saying it be unnatural.” His eyes turn distant. “Wizards be forgetting origins of house elves, and making house elves forget origins, too. Wizards forgetting is good, but not house elves forgetting.”

“Dobby… if you ever need something magical to eat, just let me know, yeah? I can help you out. And…” Harry swallows. “Please don’t feel obligated to help me out if you don’t want to. I don’t want to be like—” your old master.

“Harry Potter freed Dobby,” Dobby says.

“I don’t want you to help me just because of feeling guilty,” Harry starts, but Dobby cuts him off at once.

“Harry Potter freed Dobby. It is not guilt, it is honor. Hou—elves be paying back debts, because elves be honorable.”

“You don’t owe me a debt,” Harry tries, but Dobby cuts him off even more quickly, and more vehemently, than the previous time.

“Dobby does.” He must see something on Harry’s face, because he sighs, and seems to soften a little. “Is not just because of freeing Dobby from One-Who-Is-Not-Master. Harry Potter be understanding Dobby be free. No one, house elf or wizard, be understanding Dobby is free. Only Harry Potter be understanding. Harry asks, not tells, and listens to what Dobby says. Harry gives presents, protects Dobby, asks Dobby what he needs. Dobby helps Harry Potter because Harry Potter helps him. Harry Potter is Dobby’s friend.”

Harry swallows the hot, wet lump that seems to have formed in his throat. “Thank you,” he says.

Dobby smiles. “And now, as Harry Potter’s friend, Dobby is telling him to go back to sleep. No one will get through Harry Potter’s wards.” His smile widens, showing all of the teeth Harry hadn’t properly noticed before today. “Harry Potter will be safe.”

Harry sleeps in the whole day Friday; he wakes up once in the morning, considers his schedule, and decides to skip. He’s woken a few times by Dobby, who brings him food and coaxes him into eating.

He does the same thing Saturday.

On Sunday, Harry wakes up in the morning and goes to take a shower (before going back to bed) and is cornered by Blaise, who’s like, “you need to take your meds with breakfast”. Harry says something about avoiding Umbridge, but then shrugs and is like, I can’t put off seeing her forever. He ends up joining the Slytherins for breakfast; Daphne is happy about this.

(I wasn’t going to explicitly cover this until later, but Daphne really wants Harry to look strong to get more Slytherin allies, which is a problem because Harry a) cares more about being strong than looking strong and b) thinks if he purposefully acts strong to get allies, he’s doing a disservice to his allies and tricking themselves into ending up in more danger than they realized.)

Hermione comes to sit with him again. Brings him a book on fighting with knives.

There’s probably another confrontation with Umbridge around here somewhere; Harry simply ignores her. He’s found his solution to Umbridge and he’s sticking to it. He ignores Umbridge completely; this includes skipping all of her classes, and the detentions she assigns him for skipping classes. What’s she going to do, give him detention?

He writes to Kreacher and Sirius reassuringly; he has -10 desire to acknowledge weakness, and Surely this whole thing with his magic will blow over soon, right? (Wrong.)

Problems arise that day/the next when he tries to use magic and finds himself still having quite a bit of trouble with it. He calms himself down, tells himself not to worry about it. He focuses on learning knife fighting;

A few days later, Snape pulls him aside. “Potter,” he grits out, “go to Umbridge’s detentions.” Underlying implication: don’t make me have to acknowledge your existence again. It turns out Umbridge can do something worse than just assigning him detention for skipping detention.

The next time Harry gets assigned detention, he goes to it. Writes I will not tell lies. instead of what he’s supposed to write because my boy has bad vision. Totally stoic about the pain. Gets Dobby to cover it up for him bc he doesn’t want Hermione to worry.

Harry skips Umbridge’s class, but goes to her detentions instead. He figures even if he went to class, he would get detention anyway because Umbridge hates him, so just going to detention is more time-efficient. During this next bit, he mostly focuses on knife fighting, because his magic still isn’t working. He does get worried enough that he writes to Kreacher, admitting what’s going on. Kreacher sends him this cool knife that changes sizes based on Harry’s need, and can be summoned back to its holster without Harry using any magic. Harry does a lot of reading on dueling strategy and the fundamentals of magic; he’s filling up his notebook, starting to develop more of a distinct dueling style (although he can’t actually duel rn).

Like a week passes. Daphne pulls him aside, explains that she and Blaise will follow him, that others might too, he just needs to seem stronger. He refuses, doesn’t want to lead other people into battle based on pretenses.

Hermione wants him to teach DADA. He refuses, says he can’t teach without magic.

Blaise wants him to get checked out by a healer. He refuses.

Quinn, commenting on this google doc rn:

Harry says no: the chapter

He’s also having increasing trouble lying. We’ll get back to that. ;)

He’s becoming weirdly strong, fast, eyesight good. Bruises heal almost immediately. He doesn’t notice, though; just knows that his eyesight seems a bit less blurry.

I was thinking that around this time, the Ravenclaw Herbology people from earlier might start getting curious about what exactly Harry always seems to be writing about in that ratty old notebook of his.

Two weeks or so pass; he runs into Mateo Burnet being threatened by an older Gryffindor for hanging out with their younger, Hufflepuff sister. The Gryffindor says something about everyone knowing what Slytherins will do to Hufflepuffs in order to get ahead. Burnet keeps on trying to persuade the Gryffindor that he means no harm, but the Gryffindor’s getting angry, and he draws his wand. Harry pulls Burnet back.

“What are you gonna do, Potter?” the Gryffindor mocks. “Everyone knows that you’ve lost your magic.” He steps in close, presses his wand to Harry’s neck. Harry shoves the Gryffindor’s arm to the side, twisting their wrist, and presses his knifepoint to the Gryffindor’s throat.

This whole thing makes him realize that he needs to be able to use magic/be stronger to protect people like them. He writes to Sirius admitting his issue, agrees to go to Blaise’s healer/magical specialist.

The healer is immediately like “what the FUCK how are you ALIVE”.

Heads up, this is gonna be a whole lotta of worldbuilding BS.

Basically… when Harry pushed his magic trying that spell even when he was magically exhausted, it popped the membrane he had around his magical core. (I think someone actually guessed this a while ago, so kudos to whoever that was!)

In my little AU, I figure that magic is stored in a sort of core, which has a membrane around it, and it’s released through either a) leaking out through the membrane, which is semi-permeable, or b) being released through specific channels that wizards and witches develop through practice. Magic that’s channeled is more controlled, but it takes more conscious work, whereas magic that comes through the membrane is wilder—think accidental magic. The magic that keeps wizards and witches’ immune systems going and supplements their bodies also comes through the membrane.

The issue is that Harry’s been requiring a whole lot more magic to do things like maintain his immune system, heal his injuries, and keep him running when he doesn’t have a lot of food in him. I mean, in the past couple of years he’s made his body deal with everything from basilisk venom to a lack of food to literally the Cruciatus Curse. In order to cope with everything, his entire magical system has adapted; his membrane is all stretched out and much more permeable, and his whole body is basically being held together by the magical version of shoestrings and gum.

Hence how his system was in a position where pushing himself a little too hard with that one last spell could just POP his core.

Now that his magic isn’t gathered up in a core anymore, his magic ends up spending its time enhancing his body instead of being available to be used for spellwork. This is obviously a problem—but not to worry, it’s fixable! Harry has to just do two things. First of all, he has take care of himself decently well, since otherwise his magic will divert from doing magic things and will instead focus on shoring up Harry’s lack of self-care. Secondly, Harry needs to meditate so he can work on gathering his magic where his core should be. Luckily, Dobby can help with at least the second one of these things, since Dobby has experience with adjustments in how magic works.

Quinn when we were brainstorming this:

harry, taking a nap: can i do spells yet
harry, drinking water: are you happy yet can i finally cast spells
harry, eating a balanced dinner: goddammit how am i supposed to defeat voldemort if my magic is like a feral cat i have to tempt closer to myself with tasty food

Anyway, it’s still going to take a little while for Harry to adjust.

Now that that worldbuilding stuff is covered, back to the plot! There are two separate plot threads that I would have had happening basically simultaneously; I’ll cover them individually, though.

PLOT THREAD NUMBER ONE: Burnet has become super loyal to Harry in the wake of Harry’s ~heroism~, and he starts pushing back against Umbridge. This leads to Umbridge using the Blood Quill on Burnet. Harry has been going to his detentions and also getting the Quill used on him, but he didn’t really care that much. Having a cute little first year experience the same thing hits WAY different, though.

When talking to Burnet about this, Burnet looks at Harry’s “I will not tell lies” scar and asks, “Does writing a promise out in blood like that affect you?”

Cue Harry realizing that the reason he’s been having trouble lies recently is because, between him literally writing a promise out in blood, and his own genuine resolve to tell the truth about Cedric’s death, he’s worked powerful blood magic. He literally cannot tell lies.

Burnet points out that blood magic is super illegal; Harry “I warded my bed with blood” Potter is like “hm. Well, I don’t care how I get Umbridge in trouble, as long as I can get Umbridge in trouble.”

Cue him arranging an interview about this whole thing with Xenophilius.

Harry is like, “so anyway, Umbridge was using blood magic,” in the tone of a prosecutor trying to get a mafia boss sent to jail for tax fraud.

Xenophilius: you’re coming to me…because this is blood magic? Not because it’s a fucking compulsion… you literally cannot lie… this is illegal bc it’s a fucking violation of your rights…

(it’s basically like this.)

Harry: hm. I didn’t think anyone would… care about that?

Xenophilius: *literally having a mental breakdown*

There’s a huge political clusterfuck, and Umbridge gets replaced—with another Ministry lackey, but one who’s just generally incompetent instead of dangerous, and who lets Harry skip class as much as he likes.

PLOT THREAD NUMBER TWO: A lot of this is only revealed through Kreacher POV, because my boy Kreacher has been SCHEMING.

So, a while back, when Burnet first got attacked, Harry sent a letter to Sirius revealing that he can’t use his magic. Cue Sirius freaking the fuck out, because Harry is stuck with a bunch of Slytherins, without any working magic.

Kreacher, who heard about Harry’s lack of magic a while ago, is like. Hm :). He leaves a book where Sirius can see it—a book talking about how much safety and protection Heirs of the House of Black are afforded. Sirius reads it, and decides to try to make Harry the Heir of the House of Black, totally sure the whole while this is His Own Idea.

In reality, Kreacher has been low-key wanting Harry to become Heir Black for a while—and so has the Black Family Magic. When Kreacher said “the books wouldn’t let you read them if the family magic didn’t like you” he fucking meant it. Something about Harry’s blazing, feral, ruthless magic fucking delights the Black Family Magic. It probably helps that Harry is deadset on killing Voldemort—essentially, on fulfilling the dying wishes of Regulus Black, who was the last real Heir of the House of Black since Sirius got disowned. (I figure with Sirius it’s like…the Black Family Magic tolerates him, but only barely, and only because Regulus isn’t around.) Either way, the point is, both Kreacher and the Black Family Magic are eager to have Harry get properly adopted.

Becoming the Black Heir is a fair bit more complicated of a process than Sirius realizes—he became the Heir as a baby, and of course he wasn’t there when Regulus became the new Heir in his place.

Basically…Harry gets to like. Commune with the Black Family dead for a bit, and if they accept him, he becomes Heir.

Me, when me and Quinn were brainstorming this:

so the Black Family Magics are sort of like. feeling him out like "young Sirius WHAT are you doing giving us this funny little scrappy not-a-Black halfbl—"
Harry's ruthlessness registers "—wait..."
Harry's respect for the family registers "wAIT"
Harry's very Black-characteristic deep desire to fuck up One Dude in particular registers "...actually, we will accept No One Else.”

Also me when me and Quinn were brainstorming this:

fucking mr. Murder Black (this was before the constellation names) "I like him bc he seems like he really wants to kill that Voldemort guy :)"
everyone:
Mr. Murder Black: "I like a ruthless heir"
Mrs. Vela Black, tired: we know

And then me and Quinn started talking about like. What if Sirius wasn’t actually the Black Family Council’s preferred heir, they just picked him because they knew his parents would probably kill him/disown him if he didn’t… what if actually they’ve had a whole string of subpar shitty heirs and they get Harry and just go finally some GOOD FUCKING FOOD—

Me and Quinn ALSO talked about like. What if Harry can communicate with the Black Family Council through the Heir Ring,,, and they try to set him up with Blaise,,, blessed concepts.

Quinn:

harry backreading his 324 unread messages from the black family:

Anyway…sorry it’s just this was one of my favorite concepts of the whole fic! I had this one sitting in my back pocket since like September, before I got mad fucking busy, and sometimes on cold, sad nights as I sat with my homework I daydreamed about getting to write Harry being matchmade by long-dead Black family members.

Sorry, this is getting out of hand. Let me take a break.

Alright, I’m back.

So Harry just became Black Heir, right? Lucius Malfoy is NOT happy with this, because he wanted DRACO to become Black Heir—even though they took him to try become heir as a kid, and the Black Family Magic was like, “for fuck’s sakes we still have SOME standards!”

(Draco is way too soft. The Black Family Magic likes ruthless people.)

Anyway, so the point is, Malfoy Senior is PISSED. He wants Draco to contest Harry’s heirship—but Draco refuses. Not only did Harry spare him, Draco still remembers how Harry stuck his neck out for Mateo Burnet, twice. Draco has grown to genuinely respect Harry, in his own gittish, stuck-up Malfoy way, and he doesn’t want to take away Harry’s Black Heirship when everyone knows his magic is on the fritz.

So… Malfoy Senior gets this refusal and gets PISSED all over again. The next letter he sends Draco is cursed.

Harry is like >:(. He makes a deal with Dobby and has Dobby use his elven magic-eating abilities to eat the curse, thus saving Draco. Not only that, but I was thinking he also offers that Draco and Narcissa can stay in Grimmauld Place, if need be.

Quinn’s commentary:

god narcissa and sirius reunion and it's like. stiff as hell. "i love what you've done with the place :)" "don't fucking lie to me :)"

Something else I said, later, since we were talking about Narcissa and Sirius at Grimmauld Place:

Sirius: he's a Gryffindor!
Narcissa, glancing over to where Harry is talking to Draco about the best nasty little tricks to add to the wards: about that

(Eventually, Harry and Draco get to have a fun frenemy I’m-gonna-kill-you-but-no-one-else-can-be-mean-to-you-except-me type sibling relationship.)

But all of that is later. Right now, Harry saving Draco, giving him sanctuary… it makes the Slytherins, as a group, sit up and take notice.

As a whole, they have two potential interpretations of Harry’s actions to choose from:

1) it’s a family matter

Potter is the Black heir, Draco and Narcissa are technically Blacks, the whole fight was over Potter being the Black heir. Of course he's going to provide shelter to his family, that's his Duty.

It’s good that Potter is doing his duty, but more importantly, other Slytherins won’t be able to get in on that.

Quinn, 200 iq, literal genius: what if they tried to though? Families in the Wizarding World are super connected…

Me, immediately jumping to Slytherin first years committing fraud to get access to Big Brother Harry:

some little eleven year old muggleborn Slytherin named Leo: I have a constellation name!! clearly I'm a Black!! adopt me now [bright green gun emoji]

…but I digress. Either way, most Slytherins would not be able to get protection, if this interpretation is correct.

2) Harry protects his followers, even if they became his followers through him beating them in a duel

Harry beat Draco in a duel and as a result Draco backed him up. this fucked Draco over; despite disliking him (a lot) Harry helped him + his family out way more than strictly necessary bc he considers what happened to Draco like. his responsibility/knows on some level it's bc of him (in the Slytherins' minds

(fyi I would say that interpretation two is actually closer to what happened? like Harry feels obligated bc Draco got hurt bc of him, he wasn't even considering family ties. but probably more Slytherins would believe interpretation one)

Anyway,,, the important thing is that… if interpretation two is correct all Slytherins need to do to get that sweet sweet Harry Potter protection is duel him and lose.

…do you see how this gets very ridiculous, and very fun, very fast?

Sometimes I get the impression that people think I choose how to plot things based on like. Logic. That is entirely false. I choose how to plot things based on what will be the most fun. I come up with funny ideas and then I figure out how to make the plot justify them.

You might also be interested to know, Harry dueling basically the entirety of Slytherin so that they can feel justified in following him because half of Slytherin is emotionally repressed? That was in my plans since practically the very beginning.

Like… here is a snippet of the original PS outline/plot notes from after I resigned myself to continuing this fic because it was gnawing at my brain too much:

-purebloods are stuck in fancy formal dueling mindset where you like. Try to show off how powerful your magic is, you know? Whereas harry’s mindset is like. Win at all costs.
-equal opportunity bully destroyer harry: call an eleven year old evil because of being in slytherin? Get wrecked. Call a muggleborn a slur? Get wrecked part two electric boogaloo. genuinely apologize + change your behavior? Join fight club
-harry pulling some dude up after a duel
The dude: how,,, do you do that?
Harry: :) you haven’t heard?
-once you’ve been defeated, your issue is settled and you’ve proved your honor, so it’s not humbling to apologize/accept help
-harry duels like 90% of slytherin, towards the end it’s literally just to join the dueling club
-at the start everyone’s like. Okay ik he won against [long list of ppl] but clearly I will win against him unlike THOSE losers
Harry, nodding absently: can I pencil you in for three o’clock?
-Slytherins: never expected harry potter to be the best dada teacher i’ve had at hogwarts but there you go
-harry doesn’t even realize he’s teaching dada a lot of the time, he’s just like. These r normal skills.
-what the slytherins think of as dada: basic self defense spells, how to deal with dark creatures
What harry thinks of that: oh, basic life skills
What harry thinks of as dada: how to fight for your life against multiple highly skilled opponents
What the slytherins think of that: distant screaming

Anyway. I was less sure about how things would go after that bit. I had some vague thoughts that Kreacher would explain about the horcrux after Harry being Black Heir, and that Harry could clear Sirius’ name via trial only to end up with Voldemort kidnapping him and dragging him down to the DOM as a way of still having the prophecy revealed but… there wasn’t a super set ending? It was mostly just vague thoughts. I wanted to let things develop naturally.

Since I don’t have a lot else to say in terms of the general plot, I’m going to answer other questions you guys asked in the comments.

This first one is one I actually answered in the comments already, but I figured I would repost it here, since some of you guys may not have seen it.

Q: cassie oh peia is it true that blaise and harry was a pairing or simply a rumor 👀

A: delighted that this is the first question that I got asked!!! truly peak.

yes, they were going to eventually become a pairing, after the SLOWEST of burns. Harry was going to be super oblivious, even as things got progressively gayer, and I wasn't gonna comment on it because it's an unreliable narrator fic (like literally all of my fanfictions, I have a problem) and also because I'm evil >:). and then eventually he was going to realize (I didn't HOW figured out specifically it was more like. amorphous but yeah) and he was gonna be like "oh my god oh fuck Blaise is gonna D I E if he dates me" and then Blaise was like "oh you know. we could just. wait until Voldemort's dead (cuz I know you'll succeed cuz I'm a supportive potential-bf)" and then yeah.

oh, also! I thought it would be super hilarious to have a whole lot of buildup in terms of long. does is Blaise/Harry??? and then have Harry at some point realize he thinks Blaise is hot, go "hm yeah I guess I'm bi, that like, checks out" and immediately move on. I just think it would be funny!!! my man is too busy with Voldemort to have a whole other existential crisis over being gay! he's like "oh no he's hot! moving on"

A little bit of added commentary—Quinn was a HUGE enabler when it came to Blaise and Harry. Like. the most enabling of enablers….

Quinn just commented “:3cccc”… HOW MANY Cs DO YOU NEED??? How much smugger must you get… we get it, you made PS extra gay…

Q: If it isn’t too much, do you mind explaining how PS would have ended and the character arcs you had in mind for the characters you had as Harry’s support system?

A: Like I said, I don’t really know how PS would have ended, only how it would have continued. It would have been a happy ending, but I can’t say I’m sure about much more than that.

As for supporting characters… I had plans to have Ron and Hermione integrate with Harry’s Slytherin allies eventually. Hermione and Blaise were going to become allies in fighting Harry’s dumbassery, and Daphne and Ron were going to end up being chess buddies—although Quinn joked that it would need to be correspondence chess.

Quinn has some more commentary on this, specifically on Blaise’ emotional arc:

The thing about Blaise is that his internal narrative is all rationality. He’s decided that he’s the coolest guy, and that he definitely thinks through all the choices he could make before he makes them, no blind spots here.

And then he meets Harry and it’s kind of a whack in the face that he had dozens upon dozens of blind spots — the man doesn’t know the first bit of wizarding etiquette or even how to calm down, and yet Blaise keeps finding himself respecting Harry. So that’s the initial emotional conflict, the one that makes Blaise go “hm. I should invest some energy into Harry, even if it loses me social points in Slytherin, because I want to make more rational and effective decisions.”

And then he starts spending real time with Harry and it’s like. Oh. Oh no. He smells nice. And he’s got a good eye for when someone’s being rude to the first-years versus rude to their friends. And for all his Gryffindor-ish inability to stand by, he doesn’t do it in clueless or unprepared ways. He’s rough around the edges, sure, but he’s got so much raw potential. Blaise starts looking at Harry and seeing someone who could be someone. Who could be great.

The other thing about Blaise is that he’s seen his mother marry half a dozen men and inherit millions of Galleons. He knows that there’s no shame in being the support behind the throne, and his ambition is starting to stir. Harry could be great and Blaise wants to make him that way, even if it means holding his hand when he shivers awake from a nightmare, even when it means unsubtly throwing an arm around his shoulders to keep him from fleeing his three-quarters full breakfast plate.

But — Harry’s fighting a British fight. And Blaise, for all he goes to Hogwarts, has far more continental ties than he does Scottish or English ones. Throwing his lot in with Harry means throwing those ties away.

Blaise has his ambition, yes, but he could find someone back in Italy with an established House and a real bloodline, who already knows that silverware goes from the outside in and you hold your white wine glass by the stem. He’s rational. He can’t figure out why something in him coils in disgust at the thought.

So he falls into it, at first, trying very hard not to analyze the steps he’s taking, until one day Harry looks up at him with a gleam in his eye. And Blaise tilts his head, because he knows most of Harry’s expressions but not that one, and Harry does a lilting little laugh and pulls his head down and — oh. Something he couldn’t learn from his mother. Something worth the connections he has on the continent, and if this goes well they’ll come running back to him anyway. Blaise’s smile splits his face, and Harry’s does too, and they’d never be like that in public, but they’ve long since given up being embarrassed to be vulnerable around one another.

Blaise starts out thinking that he’ll be the one to make Harry someone strong enough to defeat Voldemort and win plaudits and elevate both their statuses, and he never really abandons that goal. He just stops lying to himself about why he wanted it in the first place.

Q: I thought the world-building about the background of elves was really interesting. [this wasn’t a question but it reminded me of something, so]

EDIT: I got another question later [“The background on the house elves is extremely interesting actually and I would like to know if the Information was going to be used for something further in the plot and how PS would have ended”] that’s pretty similar; I’m just going to figure between the elaboration on Dobby’s role and this answer, that covers it; I can’t really think of anything else to add.

A: Thank you! I had a lot of fun with that.

I was actually going to eventually reveal that Kreacher has been using a strategy similar to Dobby’s—not in that Kreacher’s a free elf, but as in, in the absence of a wizard, he’s been devouring ambient magic from Grimmauld Place. Unlike with Dobby, this is fully consensual—prior to his death, Regulus did a lot of research into house elves (hence the house-elf proof wards) and figured out a way that Kreacher could live on, even if all of the Blacks died. At the time, Kreacher wasn’t exactly delighted at the idea at the time, but after Regulus’ death, Kreacher felt that it was necessary that he live on in order to fill Regulus’ last request.

Q: I would love to hear a rough idea of where you thought this story might have ended up or if you don't want to write that all down maybe one surprise or interesting thing you had thought to include that you won't be putting down on paper now.

A: I was going to eventually reveal that Theodore Nott was also a victim of the Cruciatus Curse—at the hands of his Death Eater father. This was vaguely hinted at here and there in terms of like. Mentioning that he’s very quiet and withdrawn, especially after the summers, and there was this one subtle mention of his hand trembling—he has nerve damage just like Harry does.

Also, this isn’t really a surprise, but I guess another little tidbit is that I had been planning to have the DA be open to Slytherins as well in this AU, which ofc makes the Slytherins go 0.0 because they wouldn’t have expected that from him. Harry would make them swear not to use what he taught them against him/people on his side, which he figured is just Basic Common Sense, and which in actuality means he’s basically bribing the Slytherins with sweet sweet dueling ability in return for their allyship or at least neutrality…

Additionally, Harry’s dueling style was going to become increasingly distinct; I wanted Harry to end up essentially minting a whole new school of thought in terms of dueling. I’ve seen a lot of fics where Harry beats people around him by being super powerful, but I’ve always felt like it was more interesting to have him beat his opponents by having a different, unexpected approach—and I felt like him developing a new dueling style would be realistic, since he’s incorporating muggle ideas in dueling, something which the almost-entirely-pureblood duelists of the past would never have done.

Q: I'm curious if you'd planned to have Daphne queer or not.

A: I never really thought about this much, to be honest? But I can’t really envision Daphne as being attracted to men. I could see her as ace, or maybe a lesbian, but I really can’t picture her (or at least PS!Daphne) romantically involved with a man.

This is only tangentially related, but Daphne would have never ended up in any sort of maternal role, either. I proposed having her act sort of maternal once, and Quinn (rightfully) shot that shit down immediately. We decided to have Blaise be the mother hen instead, which was objectively far, far better, and I feel like is much more true to Daphne’s character. Hermione and Blaise and even Ron are mother hens; Daphne is more the sort to (with appropriate Slytherin subtlety) poke Harry with a stick and try to get him to duel someone again so he’ll look super impressive. She’s sly and clever and ambitious, not maternal.

Q: Would Sirius have ever found out about Regulus' last act, or Harry idolising him?

A: Hm. This is another one of those things I didn’t actually think about that much. I didn’t make any plans on this subject, but knowing who I am and the types of tropes and events that make me go *chefs kiss*, yeah, he would have found out eventually. Don’t ask me how he would have reacted though, because I’m honestly not sure.

Q: Would Snape have stopped ignoring Harry (for better or worse)?

A: This is something I have thought about! But… that doesn’t mean I have a definitive answer.

When I was first plotting things out, I was going to have Snape ignore Harry for basically the entire year, until being forced into acknowledging existence against his will. I was going to have Harry get Sirius a trial, and have Sirius gain custody of Harry, only for Dumbledore to inform him at the last minute that he was going to have back to the Dursleys anyway. Cue Harry going, “fuck this shit” and barricading himself in his dorm room, complete with like five layers of wards and a bed leaned against the door.

By this point, the Slytherins would have realized how abusive Harry’s family was, and would like him enough to care, a lot. I was thinking that they would try to reason with Snape, only to have Snape dismiss their evidence because of his huge James Potter sized blind spot. The original planned ending for PS was here, with the Slytherins turning against Snape; it was supposed to be a whole ~symbolic~ thing, with Snape representing the old model of what a Slytherin is, and the Slytherins turning against Snape representing them turning against that old model.

But… as I kept on writing, I got more and more :/ about this ending. This was early in my plotting; there’s a lot that I plotted out, only to discard as the story evolved in a different direction. For instance, in early plotting, I was considering having Regulus Black secretly still be alive! There was going to be this whole thing where Slytherins got alumni mentors, and Harry got Regulus Black, and everyone was like “well, sucks to be you, since he’s dead” but then Regulus also found out and secretly corresponded with Harry anyway because like, he’s trying to kill the Dark Lord! What’s not to like!

…I have a lot more I could say about that whole original plan with Regulus. If any of you guys are interested, I can explain that more in the comments (I'm not going to post another chapter just for explaining my weird, aborted conspiracy-sounding plan to have Secretly-Not-Dead!Regulus feature in PS).

Q: This is a great story though so I'm really curious on how you were going to end it, the misunderstandings Harry has about people's opinion about him, and about Blaise and Harry. Though seeing the first comment is about them, I guess you don't have to answer that.

A: The only thing that hasn’t really already been covered is how the misunderstandings would be resolved. I didn’t have that plotted out specifically… but it would probably basically go something like this: A) Harry being really oblivious and B) Daphne and Blaise eventually hammering their, and the other Slytherins’ respect for him through his thick head with immense time, effort and dedication. As for people outside of Slytherin… the whole thing with the Blood Quill and the reveal that Harry literally cannot lie would have caused the school as a whole to respect Harry a lot more—not that Harry would have trusted any “well, I believe you now” types.

...

I think between the plot summary and these answers, I covered everything, but if you have any more questions I can answer them in the comments—I’ll probably disenable commenting in a few days, though. I ended up getting some nasty comments, as expected, and while I decided to just delete them and turn off guest commenting since I felt like you guys deserved to be able to express yourselves regardless of trolls, I also don’t want to keep on moderating these comments indefinitely.

Speaking of comments, I just wanted to thank you guys for how respectful and understanding you’ve all been on the whole. <3 <3 <3